Six Degrees
by Alfisti
Summary: In the world of espionage, nothing is a coincidence. The Blacker Fratello's adventure continues.
1. Prologue

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

**Prologue**

Spring in the tropics, a first taste of summer's wet bringing with it promise of rain and dank humidity to come, turning winter's dry heat into a muggy sauna; one only to be broken by thundering storms. For now, however, those had yet to eventuate, and evening instead offered a welcome respite for the inhabitants of Panama City. A light breeze, mingling with the song of cicadas, carried sweet jungle scents down from darkened hills above, cooling sun-baked streets and drawing people back onto their pavements in the wake of afternoon's sullen torridity.

Feeling the air's cool touch, Sir Algernon Herbert shifted a red telephone handset to his other palm, chair swivelling to let it wash over him, wafting through tall French doors and into the darkened office, mixing with lazily turning fans in the gloom high above. Saving one ear for arguing voices emanating from the secure line's far end, he tapped idly at a thick, hide-bound diary, placed open on his desk blotter, with the blunt end of a fountain pen, engraved gold nib glinting under the desk lamp's warm glow. Late though it may be, if Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service wanted its head of station available, then he made himself available, surrounded by deep wood panelling, vaulted ceilings, leather chair and all... which at least made the wait slightly more pleasant. The other consolation of course was that, if it was late for him here, _someone_ must have made it into Vauxhall Cross very early indeed, assuming they had even gone home in the first place.

Part of him still wished they would get to the point a mite quicker though.

_And if wishes were horses then beggars would ride. Patience my lad, M will get there soon enough, once everyone has had a chance to vent._

From below the terrace onto which his office fronted came the churn of an engine starting, diesel clatter resonating around courtyard walls of this Spanish-Colonial villa. As if aware of its need to compete for his attention, the conversation on the line's other end ratcheted up a notch. Seemingly discussions were coming to a head, which meant it was also probably approaching about the time where making some input may actually be worthwhile.

"If I may intercede for a moment, gentlemen..." for a second there was no change, then M's calm tones, halting the conversation, "...thank you. Algernon Herbert, Central American Station. I would suggest that sending another agent eastwards may not be the best course of action. The Chinese tolerate us in and around Hong Kong to an extent, but if their Ministry of State Security decides we're getting too heavy handed, they are likely to cause more problems than are solved... especially as we were _supposed_ to have given the place back to them."

Another pause while the conference sorted itself back into some semblance of order, and once more to let it begin making headway again, an irritated voice announced as hailing from the Far East Station bullying its way to the front.

That should give them something else to bicker over for awhile longer, but eventually the callers would wind up somewhere sensible again.

_Eventually._

It was just the waiting for them to do so which caused vexation.

The heavy Bakelite handset was shifted to his other ear again.

Another puff of cool breeze, another whiff of jungle... the sounds of a city night starting to mix with those of nature carried on the wind, faint in the background. Taking a remote station posting had its perks: a certain autonomy and freedom to run things as one saw fit, which was why, perhaps, calls such as this tended to drag on so.

Tap, tap, tap, went the pen.

_Heads of station conference: too many kings, used to ruling their own little kingdoms._

The Far East station head was talking again, and Algy let him get to the end of his sentence before interjecting once more.

"We're all under-resourced Charlie, you know that. I'm only saying if you've already one agent with their back against a wall, it might not hurt to display a tot extra of discretion..." He paused again, allowing the irritated retort die down. "...I wasn't suggesting any lack of discretion to begin with. However, as a whole, our little circus needs to exercise caution: Hong Kong is no longer our own backyard. If we are caught playing the Game too hard the Chinese may just start to push back more, which could make life around Asia very difficult indeed. Ideally someone more deniable would suit any intervention, someone we've got evidence on to say 'not ours' if things go awry, and with some recourse to proof beyond our own simple denials..." He paused, letting the words hang as another thought occurred, "...someone who doesn't work for us anymore... in fact, I think I may know just the chap. Though finding him is going to be a challenge."


	2. CH01 Lost in Translation

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

_Thanks to Kiskaloo for the loan of Michele Pagani and Kara, and Professor Voodoo for Genco Ribisi._

* * *

**Chapter 01|Lost in Translation**

Springtime in Italy, bringing to thawing Apennine foothills the first breath of summer, sunlight pushing in long golden spears through lightening clouds and signalling an end to grey winter days, with the promise of blue skies to come.

Not that one could tell from here.

Heels sinking into soft rubber flooring, Monty ran sharp eyes up the Social Welfare Agency Medical Department gym's tall walls. Climbing past canvas-fronted padding, and through bands of rough-cut concrete where two higher levels had been removed, a necessity when the space's regular users were perfectly capable of jumping a storey or more, her gaze finally came to rest upon ground-level windows far above.

_Certainly_ not from here.

Most cyborgs developed a... _distaste_... for the gym: its odour of stale sweat, chalk and rubber unpleasant reminders of tests it was used to stage, tests meant to run a girl to her absolute limits. Those were not memories dearly treasured, and that many preferred to try and forget if possible.

Today, however, she had additional reason to find issue with her presence here.

A grunt of exertion filled the air.

Slipping back one light grey suit cuff, she inspected her watch, eyes drifting to the figure hanging from one of the wooden bars, sleeves of its navy skivvy top pushed up to reveal straining muscles. Wires dangled from under the dark blue fabric, running to where two technicians monitored their computer screen a short distance away.

"Need I remind you we're supposed to be joining Priscilla and Genco in half an hour?"

Another grunt, and Jethro Blacker dropped briefly, before beginning to haul himself skyward once more.

"You may need to – _grunt_ – go without me for a for a bit luv – _grunt_ \- until we're done here." Monty nodded as her handler's eyes flicked toward the room's other besuited occupant. "I don't see you making the likes of Hilshire or Pagani do this."

In front of the bar, Ferro Milani looked up from her own notes at the sweating agent. "Hilshire was a walk-in, and Pagani was sent to us by the Prime Minister. You, on the other hand, were recruited from British intelligence."

"Not directly, you found me in a gaol cell."

"Yes, wearing a priest's cassock, but your previous intelligence experience was the reason we bothered, and so we expect you to maintain the same standards _here_ as you would have _there_."

"And here was me thinking all you wanted were my charm and good looks."

That earned him an unimpressed expression.

"Besides, the other handlers we can monitor day-to-day. You, however, are generally absent." The SWA's personnel manager glanced toward the two medical techs, one of whom held up a thumb. "We're done now here anyway..." her eyes flicked to Monty, "...he's all yours."

With that, Ferro turned away, striding toward the monitoring pair, notebook still under her arm as Jethro dismounted the bar, staggering slightly as the mat flexed beneath his weight. Righting himself, the former spy swung arms back and forward a few times, still breathing hard, before rolling up his shirt to start picking at electrodes stuck to sweating skin beneath.

Stepping forward, Monty began to unclip those wires attached to his back, before peeling off the sticky contacts they had been bound to. Collecting each in her hand, the girl walked again to her partner's front as he tore off the last sensor there as well, before setting his shirt neatly in place once more.

Holding out a palm, she gestured for him to hand them over. "Give me those, I'll find a bin on our way out."

"Thanks luv. Do I have time for a quick freshen up?"

Accepting the spent patches, the cyborg gave him an appraising look, and cocked an eyebrow. "Well, you're certainly not walking into the Spook Pit looking like that."

"Thought as much."

"Besides, I need my computer."

Outside the gym, clean, antiseptic neatness greeted the fratello, marking this a high-security area, one of those constructed as part of the Medical Block's refurbishment with the start of its SWA tenure. Cold fluorescent light reflected from white walls, bouncing off easily cleaned flooring to pick out rubber bump-rails and heavily reinforced doors... intended to hold back something far more powerful than the original architects could ever have envisaged. Finding the elevator quickly, Monty produced an ID card, touching it against the car's reader, before punching the button to take them back to Ground. It only made for a short ride but, when the doors opened again, the change was marked, white sterility replaced by lime green walls, light wood trimming nicked and scarred with age and chequered vinyl underfoot, out of fashion at least twice since it had been installed.

Low budget, obsolete, the facade of a facility being run on a shoestring.

Checking the hall into which they emerged from scuffed flooring to bare, concrete ceiling, the cyborg lead her partner right, making quick progress through the building's warren toward its front entrance. Pausing only to get scanned out at the manned security checkpoint, the pair stepped through double doors into golden sunlight.

Edging toward summer it may have been, but the full warmth of those months still represented a distant dream, and Monty watched as her still sweat-soaked handler shivered in suddenly cool late spring air. The halt was momentary however, and they were quickly moving again, down a short flight of steps and out across the Medical Block car park, toward a dark grey Audi estate parked tail-in amongst scattered vehicles.

Waiting for her partner to first unlock it, the girl settled into the passenger seat's comfortable leathery embrace as, beside her, Jethro brought the A4 Allroad's diesel engine churning to life.

Another shiver.

"Glad we didn't walk this time?"

"A little this time, yes."

Pulling the gear stick into 'D', her handler released the handbrake and edged their car out of its space, tyres rumbling on coarse, cracked, bitumen seal.

It was only brief trip back to the Agency's main cluster of buildings, barely worth the drive, unless one was lazy, or in a hurry, and so the journey passed in silence, Monty settling instead to watch campus grounds passing beyond her window. Familiar grounds, but not homely: a distraction and necessary evil to visit upon once every few months.

Beneath her the tyres' note changed, all-terrain, all-season Pirelli treads crunching onto gravel as her partner turned into the SWA's back car park: overflow for when the main courtyard was full, or a discreet option for those whose preference was to remain out of sight. Finding a secluded corner, Jethro backed them in beside a red BMW X6, giving the engine a moment to idle down before turning it off.

Door closing with a solid thud, the cyborg inspected her new and unfamiliar neighbour warily, before circling their own vehicle's snout to join her handler, eyes flicking over its shining paintwork and grille, before cocking a questioning eyebrow.

The spy followed her gaze. "Audi gave it a polish, and they sent it back clean as well."

"Good to know. Given what I've been reading, I'm becoming increasingly less enthused over returning here. We might get the next service done elsewhere... Germany perhaps."

Feeling the light touch of a hand between her shoulder blades, Monty began to make her way toward the Administration Block entrance, Jethro's voice floating from behind as she swiped in through the side entrance. "Well, you were with the quacks at the time, so at least we weren't out there looking like a fratello."

Inside, the SWA main building presented a marked change again from the two faced medical wing, by a good couple of centuries to boot. Here, worn terrazzo clicked beneath leather heels, wood panelling climbing centuries old stone walls which gave way to long, breezy colonnades, the courtyards they surrounded architectural relics of a time long past. The back park's downside, of course, was that it lay substantially farther from the staff accommodation than the main courtyard, and the complex's ancient layout only compounded that issue. The walk however was dispensed with quickly, and two sets of feet were shortly climbing stairs toward the handlers' rooms. Waiting for her partner to open his own door, Monty held out her hand again.

"Keys."

Those were dropped into her palm with a jingle. "Where did they put you this time?"

"Next floor up."

A pause, and Jethro's face took on a pensive expression. "So I can go to the pub in less fear?"

"I'm by the stairs." Her words were deadpan.

"That's a 'no' then."

Giving her partner an unimpressed look from behind heavily lidded eyes, the girl said nothing, instead leaving him to slip inside while she headed up another storey to halt at a door immediately by the last step. Pausing, the young spy glanced down to where wood framing met carpet and, seemingly content with what presented there, let herself in.

The room beyond was sparse at best, its furnishings an eclectic mix between cheap, government issue items and heavy, antique, hand-me-downs; fitting reflections perhaps of the SWA facilities as a whole. Starched white sheets on a cheap bed contrasted the solid wood desk and wardrobe, her cardboard and leather suitcase set neatly beside the latter, its orange corners and straps adding some colour to the space: a loaner space, one for visitors and infrequent guests.

Crossing the small area quickly, Monty retrieved a sleek Macbook Pro which had been residing on the desk and tucked it under one arm, before inspecting her reflection briefly in a frameless, full-height mirror leant against the opposite wall. Settling her knit tie more neatly into place, she headed once more for the exit.

The corridor outside remained clear and, giving the door a solid tug to ensure it was indeed locked, she paused to listen. Content the area remained hers alone, the slender cyborg knelt down, dropping her laptop for the moment and tweaking one short, auburn hair from her neatly styled bob cut. Breaking the strand again, she gave her fingers a lick to paste it neatly across the gap between door panel and frame.

It was a rudimentary sort of alert at best, but still better than nothing, and the young spy stood once more, giving her suit trousers a quick dust on the way up. Retrieving her computer, she trotted toward the stairs, listening again at the well's top. Now she _could_ hear voices approaching, still a little way below and, moving quietly back down to the next level, she slipped into her partner's room.

In stark contrast to her temporary billet, the space here was full to bursting. The same desk still resided beneath a tall window, with the same warm-bulbed work lamp set upon it, and the same full-height mirror leaning against bare bricks. The bed foot it stood beside however was of the queen variety, leaving even less gap than there might otherwise have been between it and the large steel compactus which squeezed everything else across the carpet, filled with detritus of jobs past.

From the bathroom she could hear sounds of splashing water and, ensuring this room too was securely locked, Monty settled herself onto the edge of her partner's bed to wait.

She didn't need to wait long, and soon the water cut off, Jethro's still dripping head emerging around the door frame, edge of a white towel swinging back and forward through the gap below, presumably held in place to preserve his modesty.

"I'll be out in a minute."

With that he disappeared again, and Monty placed her computer on the soft duvet, voice rising slightly to talk through the still-open door.

"So, tell me what I have missed... domestically."

The reply was quick coming, slightly muffled by the intervening wall. "Not sure, what do you know?"

"Ferro gave me the download since we last touched base whilst I was in hospital, but that's two days old now, and official. Genco visited also, but he's mostly been working on our own data anyway." Placing arms behind herself to lean back, the girl looked up, past hanging lights and steel ducting, to the ceiling high above. "Hilshire and Triela are still chasing Anasetti's trail, but very little progress has been made in tracking down who may have been photographed whilst flailing about Rome after him. Operations are finally starting to gather momentum once more, but only because attempts to retrain fratelli into more covert roles seem to have come to naught, so those instructing are now freed up to start doing field work again... and they've hired a new handler to try and help cover some the capability gap."

"Sounds about the gist of it." Now Jethro emerged from the bathroom fully, dry this time, but with the towel still in place around his waist, and Monty politely averted her eyes as he retrieved underwear from an open cell in the compactus. "Jean's still stuck being only able to send out fratelli with espionage experience under any modicum of safety, but he's been pairing them up to those without in the hope some will rub off - you can look again - which, reading between the lines, is wearing a little thin." Turning her head back, the girl found her partner with a crisp white shirt halfway off its hanger, the towel draped neatly across the back of his desk chair. "Jean suggested that we stay around a few extra weeks to try and ease the load somewhat."

"And?"

"I said no."

"Good."

"Same argument as last time: we're better off keeping a low profile when in-country, particularly with the Padania now apparently actively hunting for Agency pairs."

"I presume then he accepted that."

"He did. I suspect he was mostly making the suggestion so he could say he had." The shirt was on now, steel links holding the cuffs closed, and it was followed by a pair of slate grey suit trousers, cut to compliment a slim physique. "I'm sure he wouldn't be averse the extra warm bodies mind, but he's conceded the argument once before, and I'll give Croce-the-Elder this: he doesn't change track much."

"Well, let's hope this meeting with Genco and Priscilla can find us a reason to leave quickly all the same, ideally before anyone higher up realises we're here."

Trousers in place, it did not take long for Jethro to complete dressing: shoes, belt, tie and clip, watch. Reaching down to the table, he picked up a light shoulder holster, checking quickly the black SIG P230 riding there was loaded, before slipping the rig over his shirt, taking a moment to adjust its fit.

Finally shrugging on his jacket and doing up the middle button, the Englishman turned to his charge. "Presentable?"

Keeping her movements carefully methodical, the girl stood to cast an evaluating eye over her partner, before stepping forward to straighten his tie and brush a few specks of imagined dust from spotless shoulders. "Close enough."

"Glad I pass muster." Stepping forward, he bent down slightly to scoop up Monty's computer with one hand, placing the other lightly in the small of her back to usher her toward the door. "Let's not keep Priscilla waiting."

* * *

Officially, if somewhat less excitingly, designated Section Two: Basement Conference Room One, the 'Spook Pit' resided in a former wine cellar, one sadly long devoid of its intended stores. At some undefined point during the SWA's early history, one of its denizens had noted that, despite advances in modern technology, a few feet of solid earth and stone still made for some of the best anti-snooping measures going. As a result the room had become the preferred haunt of Section Two's small intelligence department, earning its nickname in the process.

And the Agency had seemingly not been the first to reach that conclusion either.

Alighting from the end of worn stone steps, down the centre of which some health and safety type had unhelpfully painted a thick red line, Monty tapped out an organisation-wide all clear on the iron-studded door at their base, before punching a six-digit access code to the keypad and swiping herself in. Pushing against heavy timber, it swung slowly open, revealing the now familiar vista beyond, and the other reason for the room's nickname. Beyond low stone arches, the white shape of a long, Saarinen-esque table resided, two legs curving gracefully toward the floor, S-profiled swivelling chairs spaced neatly around the oval circumference; leftovers from some former tenant. Three large, spherical, stainless steel light fittings hung low over its surface, their warm glow cast only as far as the setting's edges, lending the darkened scene a distinctly conspiratorial air.

Letting his girl go first, Jethro followed her through, sealing the cellar behind him once more. Now closed in, he was able to get a better look at the four shadowy shapes clustered around the vintage illumination's extremity. Two faces fit right into his mental image of the space, the two others, not so much.

Ducking under one of the arches, the handler gave a friendly nod toward the two he did recognise, Genco Ribisi finishing arranging papers before returning the gesture.

"Apologies for our tardiness, Ferro had me tied up on the monkey bars."

Now the other known personality looked up at them, eyebrows raised slightly over an impish smile. "I'm not entirely certain how to correctly answer that." Pausing for a moment, Priscilla Meleori, the SWA's intelligence superintendent and chief analyst, glanced sideways at her still shuffling subordinate. "Not to worry, we're not quite ready here yet anyway."

While she talked, the former SIS agent turned his attention to their two newcomers, a male and female, the former broad shouldered and short in leg, though still clocking in around the same six feet as himself, longer torso covered by a light pink, two tone shirt and dark blue suit. The latter wore... not a lot actually and, as Priscilla finished her sentence, he turned toward them, laying a hand lightly on Monty's shoulder to shuffle her around as well.

_Another fratello pair then_.

Both parts of it too, which was unusual. Very few, if any, cyborgs ever attended 'adult' meetings, and if they were imitating his own fratello that would likely make them...

The man held out his hand, and the British handler took it as his opposite started to speak. "Florentino Vitale, formerly of AISE. You must be Jethro Blacker."

Feeling the other's grip build quickly to crushing levels, Jethro kept his own grasp firm, but no more, instead allowing the hint of an amused grin to wash across his otherwise friendly expression. "That's correct. Jethro Blacker, formerly, albeit very briefly, of the Roman Catholic Church..." he was rewarded with a slight flash of confusion in the other man's eyes and, using the waver to extract his hand, placed both palms on Monty's shoulders, "...and this is Monty. Pleasure to meet you."

In front of him, he felt movement as she proffered her own slender fingers. "Monty Blacker."

Another little flash of surprise as his partner's smooth, rounded, and proper tones were juxtaposed against a handshake he knew would be every bit as firm and businesslike as his own. Florentino recovered admirably however, the flash quickly disappearing.

"Yes, the infamous spyborg..." now he stepped back to bring the other attendee into view, "...this is mine, Odile."

Monty held out her palm again, and the taller girl opposite glanced quickly at her own handler before taking it, blond hair swaying. That bought him a few extra seconds to take in the rest of what was presented: a metallic gold, backless top looping around the nape of her neck and held proud of the rest of her body by large, not entirely naturally falling, breasts, before being caught again high on her waist by a wide, white belt, topping a black, patent leather mini-skirt. Open-strapped heels in similar tones brought her height up nearer her handler's eye level, toward whom she glanced again.

That gaze quickly snapped forward once more though as Jethro proffered his own hand, careful to keep eyes high. "Nice to meet you, Odile."

"Thank you, sir."

The grip which returned was weak, though she managed a smile, and it set another alarm bell ringing in the back of his head. Florentino, however, was talking again. "Chief Lorenzo has had me riding heard on some of the domestic types until Odile passes her _VdCO_, but eventually we'll be joining you on the international circuit."

"Is that so?" The tone emanating from just below shoulder level was neutral, that of polite query, but the handler hid an internal wince, pulling the speaker in a little more tightly as he did.

"Indeed, Pieri drew me specifically out of AISE for the role. We're here today to get some idea of where you're at, and what gaps we can fill intelligence wise internationally."

Jethro again kept his face impassive. "Well, I hope it's enlightening for you."

"So do I, I've been given your reports, but they've been heavily censored, and very little chance for discussion has been made available."

"We've been holding off having another sit-down on the international front until you two were back and Monty was out of hospital." Priscilla's voice, and the British handler looked toward her again.

"Thank you for that."

"It hardly makes sense to go over the same ground twice." Now, the normally cheery analyst's tone took on a harder edge. "Besides, _Florentino_, here, is still supposed to be concentrating on helping out with the domestic front."

"We won't be doing domestic labour forever though, so we need to be kept abreast of what's happening, and Odile could use the practice at knowing what to look for in the field and on paper."

"Speaking of domestic matters though, I presume you brought Hilshire's work?" The voice came from in front of him again, and Jethro could detect the first hints of impatience sidling into his partner's tone.

Genco however was looking up from where he stood, black topped glasses catching the light momentarily. "We did."

"That will make as good of a starting point as any then."

Twisting now from where she was held, the slender brunette strode quickly around the table, Odile quickly slotting in on her flank: not so close as to be a hindrance, but close enough to disallow anyone else prime position. Giving an internal sigh, the British handler followed after his girl.

_Frankly, things would be a lot easier, and much less tense, without the other fratello here... or at minimum without the other cyborg._

Sliding past the blonde, he pulled up behind Monty, leaning forward to place one hand on the table beside her so as to peer over a skinny shoulder. Before her were spread a series of A4 photo printouts, various documentation, a couple of pages run off from Google maps, among others. Unobtrusively studying one picture rested on the table, of a man in leather jacket in the middle of mounting a large touring bike, Jethro moved his spare hand again to his partner's shoulder, thumb beginning to massage idly at artificial flesh.

Genco was still talking, "This is everything Hilshire has put together so far though, frankly, I have not had much chance to go through it in detail."

"After Anasetti's pistol was linked to the Turkey weapons shipment, we started trying to track down anything else in that range of serials." Priscilla was talking now_._ "We're too under-resourced to throw the net particularly wide though, so I've had to pass them onto AISI, through secure channels of course, to keep an eye out for." At the mention of her data possibly going to a third party, Monty made an unimpressed sound, however the intelligence superintendent pressed on. "The shipment which came off _Anagnos Dragon_ was also captured intact: very similar to the Turkey load, just larger."

"Obviously for the ammunition and consumables there's not much doable, but I ran the _Dragon_ serial numbers against those we were already tracking from Turkey, to see if any matched or to try and further our scope." Pausing to bring his gaze fully on the petite girl beside him, Genco shrugged. "Keeping an eye out is about all we can manage at the moment. Like Priscilla said, the way things are here, we just don't have enough usable bodies to go actively searching."

"I take it you've already been asked to stay put for a bit?"

Standing straight again, Jethro nodded at the chief analyst's query. "Jean did ask, but we've plenty else to be getting on with."

"And besides, I'll have the domestic types up to speed soon enough." That was Florentino, who now looked down at his own cyborg. "Found anything useful there yet?"

Still beside Monty, bare back to her audience, Odile's head shifted from where she had been following the more experienced girl's movements, before flicking haphazardly through one of the open folders laying on the table.

"Umm, not really... sorry sir. Is there something in particular I should be looking at?"

"Not yet, I was _hoping_ those already out in the field might be able to give us some direction."

Catching the tone, Jethro chose to ignore it, and instead replied with a shrug. "I'm afraid we might be forced to disappoint you there. Today was going to mostly be about getting all cards on the table, and seeing if that might jog a thought for someone."

"Seems a waste to have field people in to do that, AISE used to get it all collated down before bringing us in."

"Unfortunately we don't have that luxury. The SWA is primarily domestic focused, so for our end we have to pitch in."

"We're flat out just covering domestic issues with what resources we have," piped up Priscilla.

"Even Genco's only started helping us with priority in the last, what, four months?"

Without looking up, the bespeckled junior nodded. "About that."

"And I'll probably need to split his time between both your fratelli eventually as well, at best."

"Long and the short is we do our own drudge work." Monty also didn't look up as she said it, and Jethro watched as Florentino's eyes swung toward her again.

"If that's the case, I don't know how much help we'll be to you. I've not been here very long, and Odile's never left the compound, so we can't compare notes against anything you're looking at. I was expecting actual information."

"Then make yourself useful and start reading, or at least stop interrupting so the rest of us can get on."

The other man's eyes shifted to Jethro, mouth opening slightly as if to say something, but the Englishman again just shrugged. From his girl's far side however, Odile's quiet voice wafted upwards, head swinging toward her handler, and back again to her more experienced sister.

"Umm, I don't think we're supposed to talk to handlers like that."

No response.

Seemingly devoid of anything further to say, Florentino pulled back one of the chairs, its heavy steel base scraping across stonework, before picking up a folder at random and sitting down to peruse its contents. For his part, Jethro leaned back in to rejoin the conversation between Monty, Genco and Priscilla, one eye on the man and his closer charge. Surely he would have to be keeping an ear in the conversation.

_Or, perhaps, he was leaving the observation to someone else._

Eyes flicking down, the former SIS man again caught sight of Odile, still seated where she could peer in on proceedings. Occasionally she would glance back toward her handler, but generally her attention was on the group's work... or, at least, it appeared to be. As minutes wore on however, she started to fidget, fingers flicking idly at papers before her, eyes glancing at one thing or another, before snapping back to where Monty was now poring over another set of figures with the fratello's man in Rome, one hand massaging absently at an upper arm as she thought. Eventually though, the watcher's eyes would start to glaze over, and the cycle would start again. It could all just be an act of course but, if he were not very much mistaken, Odile had not been activated particularly long at all, and probably not long enough to acquire any real acting capability... especially if she had yet to make an excursion off-campus.

More likely someone had instructed her to study what eventuated - he kept his own gaze locked firmly to what was under discussion on the table – though whether to acquire information, or simply for her own knowledge of the job, was unclear.

Another rustle of paper as the blond toyed with what lay before her.

Hopefully it was to learn the ropes, though given her own handler's apparent attitude to doing the drudge work, she might not...

The thud of a folder landing and scrape of metal on stone gave him an excuse to peer again at where Florentino had stood up, report the former AISE man had been reading now returned haphazardly amongst its brethren.

"Look, I don't think being here is doing us much good. If this is what Pieri expects his field agents to spend time doing, especially the international ones, then I'm going to need to have a talk with him about getting more resources. This sort of thing might have been acceptable before, but not anymore." Now he looked directly at the other handler. "Once you've a direction, give me call, but otherwise I need to keep getting Odile prepped for her _VdCO_." There was another scrape as he wiggled his chair in again. "Come on, Odile."

The blond cyborg was up quickly and, making a quiet, apologetic, goodbye, tottered along behind her handler to the door, which closed with a thud.

Silence hung in the air for a moment.

"And good riddance too."

Genco's voice was low, but the tone was enough to garner raised eyebrows from Jethro as he moved around to claim the seat vacated by Odile. "I take he's not made many friends?"

It was this time, however, Priscilla who answered. "Not really. By all accounts he's a competent enough field agent, but the attitude has not exactly been putting people onside... you have to feel sorry for his girl though, poor thing."

"Not acclimatising to the work?"

"Not really, and she's still too naive for us to safely help her out either."

Another scrape of a chair signalled Monty also rising from her place.

"Were those two left alone in here at all?"

Genco shook his head. "No, we all arrived together, and I booked the room."

Moving to where the Vitale fratello had been seated, she began running a hand across the underside of the table and chairs there. "Good, that makes things easier, though I'm not overly enthused about the prospect of their joining us again."

Jethro gave her a querying look. "You don't trust them?"

"No."

There was a brief pause, and it was Genco who spoke up to break it.

"Well, Lorenzo _has_ instructed us to give Florentino whatever support he needs... though I guess we _could_ call it a security issue, compartmentalisation..." he glanced at his superior, who nodded.

"I might be able to spin it like that, at least until Odile is experienced enough to have acquired some level of ingrained paranoia."

"...what it does mean though is I _will_ be covering both international fratelli," continued the junior analyst, "so I may not be able to help you two out as much as I have been."

At that, Jethro gave a wry grin. "Well, no offence, but we managed for two years without dedicated support. The help has been appreciated, but if we need to make do, we'll make do."

"I'll try not to get the both of you confused then."

Monty's seat scraped again across worn flagstones as she once more took her place. Wasting no time, she reached forward, plucking from the table a photo which had so far remained untouched.

"Who is this?"

Leaning over, the handler looked at what his girl was showing: a picture of a man, the same he had noted before, sitting astride the large touring bike, distinctive cylinder heads of a BMW boxer-twin engine now clearly visible, and nodded.

Priscilla, however, was also craning in. "That, we suspect at least, is Anasetti's recruiter. Victor took those photos outside the Port of Genoa just after the _Anagnos Dragon _raid. That man made an exit on foot once the fire fight finished and took off. Victor's been trying to hunt him down again ever since. Why?"

"I think we've met before," she held out the photo for closer inspection, "Skipper?"

"I think so." Examining the picture more finely for a second, he turned to address the two Agency analysts. "The printing press we were chasing after Alexandria, when we still had a chance of finding it, took us to Cyprus. This chap, I'm fairly certain, and I suspect it's what Monty is getting at as well, tailed us out of the Anagnos Shipping offices there. He's about the same build, similar jacket and similar bike." Now the handler selected another photo, this one a blow-up of that vehicle's side and, peering closer for a moment, held it out for the other three to see. "These scuff marks here, those could be from where he dropped it trying to follow us."

"If it really is the same man, he certainly gets around," Priscilla had another one of the pictures in her hands, and was making her own study of it as she talked, "and the Anagnos link is interesting. We only suspected he was Padania, a strong suspicion, but still only a suspicion. However we did run a backtrack from Anagnos properly as well and it does, eventually, lead to solid Padania interests. If he's working in more closely with them..."

"In that case though, if he does turn out to actually be Padania, why not just embed him with the shipping company? Why go to the effort of splitting him out?"

That was Genco, and Jethro shrugged before replying. "Could be any number of things: they want to maintain some separation, some deniability for both... or he _was_ embedded, but trying to separate himself while he knew we were there..."

"...or it was Anagnos under scrutiny, and we were just caught in the crossfire." Monty's tone was dry. "The Padania only own the company, the CEO and staff are not necessarily loyal to their cause... or he could be some as yet entirely unknown third party." She halted briefly, changing tacks. "How _is _Hilshire's investigation going anyway?"

"Slowly. Whoever this man is, he's no amateur and he's covering his tracks well."

"Perhaps if we had known about this a mite sooner, we could have helped expedite things." The words were unimpressed. "The Genoa raid was months ago, why did none of this make its way to us?"

Nothing.

Finally, Priscilla spoke up again. "The information was that tentative we didn't think it worth passing on just yet, not until there was more to go on."

"This is why I ask for everything. _ I'll_ sort out what I do or do not need."

As she finished the sentence, Jethro reached over to give his partner's knee a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry luv, I'm sure Priscilla's got the message." His eyes moved back to the woman, shooting her a brief, wry, smile. "It would probably be helpful then if we could drag Hilshire in to talk over where precisely he is at, and get anything which has not made it into the reports yet."

"I don't think he's on campus right now, he and Triela are deployed most of the time." Genco's tone was low.

"In that case, let's ensure to package up everything relevant from today, and we'll go through it with a fine-tooth comb. I'll give Hilshire a call once we get back to the office, and see if Jean would mind us borrowing him for a day or two." The Briton glanced at his watch, shuffling back a jacket cuff to expose its brown dial, nestled in a sharply angled case. "For now however, I suggest we make a start at running through whatever else is here. That should at least give us some idea if anything needs to be hit at the same time, and by then, frankly, I will probably want feeding."

* * *

While the SWA was itself set amongst sprawling grounds, to very few parts of those were cyborgs actually afforded unfettered access, and those they _were_ given free reign over tended not to be frequented by the Agency's adult population. Everyone however, staff and cyborg alike, needed to eat, and the cyborgs more so than most. As such, the campus refectory stood as one of its few truly common areas, long tables invariably occupied by one or two bodies, even outside regular meal service... which also made it one of Monty's _less_ favoured places to visit.

Finishing off a last bite of fettuccine, the cyborg placed the empty plate atop her partner's, returning to peruse a thick lever arch file open on the table. Around her, the room buzzed with conversation, its inhabitants continuing that strange dance inherent to all communal hubs, into which her handler had momentarily disappeared. At least she had managed to claim one of the smaller settings, wedged into a corner, where she could keep one watchful eye on the refectory in general and its entrance in particular.

Unfortunately, being able to spot trouble coming, and being able to avoid it, were two entirely different matters.

"Hi, Monty."

Uttering a resigned sigh beneath her breath, the young agent closed her folder and looked up.

"Petra. Kara."

The tone was not one deigned to encourage further conversation, but if the other girls noticed, they payed it no heed, and the Asian-featured Kara continued. "I didn't realise you were out of the hospital already."

"It was routine maintenance. I was discharged this morning."

Now Petra's gaze slipped briefly to her companion. "You've not seen Odile yet today have you, Kara? She was in her meeting."

Monty cocked an eyebrow. "_Odile _should be keeping her mouth shut about what happens in, and regarding her attendance to, those meetings... presuming she has aspirations toward maintaining that attendance."

Unperturbed, the Russian cyborg continued. "She was upset with you, Monty. Apparently you were rude to her handler."

The eyebrow stayed up.

For a second, nothing was said.

"If I was I certainly do not remember being so, and if I _were_ it would presumably have been related to his wasting my time and the planet's oxygen supply." The words were terse. "Don't you two have something better to do?"

Still standing, Kara shook her head, sending long, black hair swinging. "Not really. They finally scrapped the espionage re-streaming programme, so for the first time in months I've actually got a little free time again, rather than trying to help instruct that _and_ carry out operations."

"Re-stream?"

The Asian girl was just opening her mouth to answer when Monty felt two hands land on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

"The re-training attempts." Glancing up, she found her handler standing over her, as his own gaze turned to their two companions. "Michele was saying that, after Florentino came onboard, they decided bringing in new handlers would be a quicker and easier means by which to plug the paranoia gap, and to keep sending the older fratelli out with minders until they start abiding by Moscow Rules. Hello Kara, Petra."

"Hello Mr. Blacker."

"I see you've a new one in the dorms."

Kara nodded. "Yes, Odile. She's nice, a bit shy, but nice."

"Anyone would be shy, being thrown into that environment... I take it her handler's in and out a fair bit as well right now?"

That, however, got a shake of the head, along with a slightly more sour expression. "Not really. Odile is training a lot, but Mr. Vitale also has to go out with other fratelli. She hasn't passed her _VdCO_ yet, so she can't go with him, and normally he just sends whichever cyborg he was with to get her, or calls."

"That so..." Monty felt another squeeze on her shoulders, "...now, sorry to ruin your fun, but I need to take _this one_ with me, otherwise we'll not be getting any range time in."

Bidding their farewells, the two second generations departed, leaving the Blackers in peace. Letting them go, the remaining girl lifted her folder, tucking it under an arm while her partner collected dirty plates and cutlery. Pausing only to drop the latter off on a trolley left out for the purpose, the pair headed for the door.

Outside, and safely beyond earshot, Jethro spoke again. "Florentino certainly doesn't appear to be making many friends now does he?"

"Not really."

"Interesting that they billeted Odile in the cyborg dormitory though, might be the brass are intending to integrate her a little more closely into the domestic side than Vitale realises just yet."

"If so then they're welcome to her, though it could be the SWA is just being security conscious as well, I would not want Odile nearer anything particularly sensitive than absolutely necessary either."

Ahead, the door to the staff accommodation loomed, and conversation cut off again as the Blackers passed through, parting ways for their respective rooms. Reaching the upper floor, Monty checked her strand of hair was still in place and, content it indeed was, let herself inside.

Away from prying eyes, the young spy lifted her jacket, unshipping the pistol which had been concealed in the small of her back by British-tradition double venting and, ejecting the Walther PPK's slender magazine, began to unload it, pushing cartridges onto the desk with a thumb. Removing the final round, she retrieved a thin leather wallet from her luggage, before reinserting the now empty box and placing the pistol inside, set neatly next to the magazine's two brethren, beneath a long suppressor. Loose rounds were placed out of sight in a suit jacket pocket and, picking up her now stowed weapon, she headed again for the door.

Locking it and replacing the hair strand, the cyborg made for the stairs. Halfway down however, she found a familiar blue suit and pink shirt coming the other direction. Pausing in his climb, Florentino eyed her speculatively, seemingly drinking in what he saw, letting the moment hang, until a questioningly cocked eyebrow prompted an address.

"Monty, if you're heading back to the cyborg dorm, I need you to take a message for me."

The eyebrow stayed up. "Sorry, I'm not going anywhere near it today."

_Or ever, if possible._

That drew a slightly perplexed expression from the new handler. "Not at all today? I thought most cyborgs were not allowed in the handlers' accommodation without supervision."

"_Most_ aren't..." a new voice from behind, and she felt a strong arm slip across her chest, Jethro drawing her backwards "...Monty, however, is billeted here when we're on campus. It's more convenient to me, and to the offices."

"I didn't hear anything about that."

"And you probably won't, it's a convenience that has been perpetuated because it makes sense to do so, rather than anything officially recognised."

Now Florentino's eyes were drawn to the slim wallet the girl carried, then to a similar one in the hands of her partner, along with the small box of 7.65mm ammunition clasped beside it. "I take it you two were headed for the range?"

The British handler nodded. "Indoor, yes."

There was another pause, but eventually the SWA's newest addition seemed to come to a decision. "I'm about to head that direction myself. If you don't mind stopping at the cyborg dorm on the way, I could give you a lift."

"I think we'll walk."

Monty felt her partner's grasp get a little tighter as she said it, before continuing for her. "We appreciate the offer, but it's a pleasant sort of evening, and I prefer to walk the campus whenever possible: we spend too much time sitting down as is."

"Suit yourselves, I'll probably see you there anyway."

With that, Florentino moved past, headed up the stair well, and the Blackers continued their escape. Reaching the building exit, Jethro pushed it open, before ushering his girl out into chill evening air and handing over the box of ammunition so she could return her extracted rounds to it.

"Now there's a brush I could do without being similarly tarred by."

The pair walked another few steps in silence, before Monty spoke up again. "Did Jean get back to you regards borrowing Hilshire?"

"He did. Victor will be back the day after tomorrow, and we can drag him in then."

"That's about what he said on the phone too, so hopefully we shall avoid any clashes."

"I doubt there will be any... I think he'll be glad of the opportunity to rest Triela for a few days. It sounds like they've been busy since we were last in Rome."

The SWA's indoor range and armoury lay a reasonable distance from the main complex, far enough that, like the Medical Block, it became an easy choice for most whether to walk or drive, that equation generally coming down on the side of speed and convenience. The cool evening however made for a pleasant stroll, and the pair spent their remaining journey in comfortable silence, the crunch of leather soles on gravel serving to accompany them as twilight finally gave way to inky darkness across the landscape. Ahead, warm light could be seen flooding steps down to the half-sunken bunker's entrance and, as they drew closer, it became also apparent that despite the late hour, they would not be the only ones on the range.

A worn looking Peugeot 306 was probably property of the duty clerk, but the other two vehicles had to belong to handlers. One, a black Lexus hatchback, was recognisable as transport for Danilo Olivetti and, parked tail-in to dwarf the little hybrid, towered the red X6 spied earlier.

Beside her, Jethro nodded to the latter. "Either Pagani's suffered a taste malfunction, or they've upped the vehicle allowance without telling me."

Passing the big BMW, Monty led down to a heavy steel door, pushing through into the range's foyer. Up on the wall a television set muttered away, football match commentary echoing from hard concrete, stymieing muffled gunshots emanating from behind the closed range entrance. Coat hooks beneath it remained bare in the finer weather but, at the clerk's window opposite, two figures were already standing.

_That confirmed any suspicion regards the new vehicle's ownership then._

At the sound of the door, Odile's head snapped around, plastic pistol case in one hand swaying with the movement. Saying something to her handler, she tottered toward the new arrivals, seemingly still a little unsteady under the combination of tall heels and tight skirt, the same low cut halter she had worn before somewhat gamely still in place.

"Hello Mr. Blacker, Monty."

Stifling an internal sigh, the senior girl followed her handler's lead, returning the greeting. "Good evening, Odile."

"Sorry we couldn't keep helping at the meeting today, but Florentino wanted to keep working toward my _VdCO_."

It took a moment to assemble an appropriate response for the plump-lipped, innocent, and guileless face peering earnestly back at her.

"There probably wasn't much point in your being there, we were only comparing notes with Genco and Priscilla."

"Oh, okay... Florentino said he thought you were holding back on us."

That got a raised eyebrow, and Monty felt her handler put an arm around her shoulders, giving one a warning squeeze.

_No, this wasn't a girl she _ever _wanted knowing the same secrets she did._

"Strangely enough, working from first principals tends not to throw up information immediately."

"Florentino said that we shouldn't need to, work from first principals I mean, that _proper_ field agents should be spending their time in the field."

"And we should be..." the former AISE man was now approaching from behind his charge, boxes of 9mm ammunition in one hand, shooting glasses and a set of ear protectors in the other, "...you'll have to excuse Odile, she's yet to learn what should and should not be talked about."

The girl's features froze at those words, slowly turning red and melting into an expression of embarrassed chastisement, as her handler stopped behind her.

"That said, I _do_ want to keep getting her prepped for her _VdCO_. We've been active almost two months now, so I would like her passed out in the next few weeks."

Apparently looking to change the subject, Jethro spoke up again. "That your X6 outside, Florentino?"

"You like it?"

"I think they must have upped the car allowance while I wasn't looking."

Now the other handler gave a self-satisfied grin. "No, they haven't, it's part of the package the SWA offered to get me across from AISE: greater car allowance, bigger pay check..." he dropped a hand on Odile's head, "...more input into how my cyborg would be put together."

Stifling an internal groan, Monty lifted her partner's hand from her shoulder with careful, delicate fingers, placing it deliberately by his side before passing over her pistol and box of rounds. "You two have a fun chatting, I'll go and draw ammunition."

Leaving Jethro to his fate, the girl moved quickly toward the range clerk's window and, from behind, she heard Florentino say something else, then unsteady heels following, Odile arriving just as the man looked across his counter.

"Come back to join us for a bit have you, Ms. Blacker?"

"It would appear that way. I'll need three hundred rounds of 7.65mm Browning... ear protectors, glasses and targets."

"Right you are." Selecting a form from its pigeon hole, the clerk pushed it and a pen across the counter, before standing up. "Complete that and I'll find the rest for you."

Lifting the pen, Monty started to fill out poorly photocopied pages with her handler's details, doing her best to ignore the fidgeting blonde stood to one side. Finally, Odile spoke, leaning down to bring their heads level, her voice quiet.

"Actually, I... had a question for you."

_She wasn't going to get out of this was she?_

"Mmm?"

"The _VdCO_, is it difficult? The other girls say it is nothing to worry about but they're... not like _us,_ are they?"

"Define 'like us'."

The tone was caustic, and at it, the buxom cyborg glanced away briefly. "You know, _special_. Florentino says we're special, weaker, but better for working a long way away. Florentino says we're meant to do that, but does being weaker make the _VdCO_ harder?"

The _VdCO_, _Verifica della Competenza Operativa, _or Verification of Operational Competency, was the assessment every cyborg, from the start of the second generation onward, had found herself subjected to in order to prove to the bureaucrats she could be safely allowed off campus and into the wild.

Well, all second generations except for...

"I wouldn't know, I never did it."

That was met with a moment of silence.

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Why?"

The clerk had returned by now and, p.p.-ing her own signature onto the bottom of the form, Monty handed it back, before accepting the small boxes of ammunition, protective equipment and paper targets.

"Thank you." Turning away from the window, the young agent aimed herself back at where both handlers were still talking, catching Odile along the way. "To answer your question: it was not considered relevant."

"But _I _still have to do it. If it wasn't considered relevant for you, then why would it be considered relevant to _me_?"

"No idea. Maybe the higher-ups are not in enough of a rush to waive the bureaucracy anymore..." she let some irritation edge into her words, "...or maybe they're feeling an overpowering need to tighten quality control this time through."

Arriving back at their two handlers, Monty passed over half of what she had acquired to Jethro, receiving her own gun and old box of ammunition in return.

"Are you going to chat all night? Or shall we make a move?"

Silence for a moment, before her partner answered. "Personally, I would like to be in bed at some reasonable hour, and I'm sure the clerk here wants to go home eventually." He motioned to the range entrance. "Lay on Macduff."

Allowing Florentino and Odile first passage, the Blackers followed them through, previously muffled gunshots becoming loud cracks as the door was opened, dulled immediately again by donned hearing protection. Waiting to see which direction the newest fratello went, Monty headed the other, taking a position between them and the Olivetti pair, stationed at the firing line's farthest extremity, though still visible through thick Perspex dividers.

Unzipping the leather wallet, she extracted her PPK, before checking the manufacture date on each fifty round lot of ammunition. Selecting the newest, she placed it and the wallet on a wooden bench which ran along the back wall then, opening the still untouched box she had carried since their last visit to Rome, began filling her magazines.

Peering left, beyond where her partner was also setting up, she spied the heavy-set form of Raych, seemingly waiting for Danilo to finish loading magazines for her. As she watched, the other cyborg glanced her direction, gaze returning quickly downrange as she met her observer's eyes. Behind, the larger girl's handler passed forward his handiwork, setting his charge up for another drill.

Pushing the final round home into the last of her small mags, Monty picked up a target, clipping it to the rail above and ran it out to ten metres then, checking safety glasses remained firmly in place, inserted a magazine into her pistol and racked the slide to chamber its first round. Sweeping the safety with her thumb to ensure it was off, the young agent took careful aim at the paper's centre of mass, waiting for it to stop waving. From here it should be an easy affair to hit and, taking a breath, she opened fire, sending shots methodically down range to chew out a small hole in the sheet's exact centre.

Content with that performance, she dropped the spent magazine free, replacing it with a fresh one, before running her target out the full twenty-five metres this gallery would allow.

From up the line, more reports started, and she glanced the other direction to where Odile was standing, face on to the far backstop, a PX4 Sub Compact levelled at her own twenty-five metre objective. Behind her stood Florentino, arms folded, a pair of binoculars in his hands, which were now raised to inspect his charge's work. Shifting her own gaze to the target, Monty found she had just enough angle on the paper that sharp vision would let her watch as the new cyborg placed a small, neat, group in its centre.

_Well, at least she was good for something then._

Taking aim once more at her own mark, Monty set about replicating the feat.

* * *

"Thanks for taking the time to sit down with us, Victor. It's appreciated." Jethro's gaze wandered over those once again assembled in the Spook Pit. "I shouldn't need to say this, but it's worth re-iterating, all things considered: what gets said here doesn't go beyond the five sets of ears present. Anyone with more than two brain cells available to rub together will probably work out what's being discussed, but there's no need to help any eavesdroppers further. If you need anything from our end later, talk directly to Genco or Priscilla... ideally to Priss from here on in as she's another step removed."

Focus drifting from her partner, Monty leaned forward slightly to regard the German handler, seated another place down. He looked tired, naturally gaunt features given extra definition by the cellar's low lighting, overall effect making him appear more drawn than he would already have been...

...or, perhaps, it was less a trick of the light, and more to do with the unrelenting pace he had been required to maintain since Massimiliano Anasetti finished shooting up Rome. Whichever it was, the effect was made only more stark by its juxtaposition against Priscilla's rounded, still girlish features, sat next to Genco in the places opposite.

Now, however, the gaunt expression broke into a brief, albeit dry, smile as he nodded his accord. "No, thank you, it will be nice to have some help chasing Anasetti's trail."

"It would be rather nice to clear up a loose end or two for our part as well," put in Monty.

_And, perhaps, even start making some headway again elsewhere to boot._

Hilshire's gaze now rested on the cyborg. "I can tell you what we have found so far, but the investigation is moving a lot slower than I would like, slower than anyone would like." That brought another dark shadow across the man's face, but it disappeared just as quickly. "Is there some place in particular you would like me to begin?"

Looking over the top of her laptop, she cast a speculative eye across inherited mid-century furniture, its surface once again littered with folders, documents and photographs, though this time carefully curated to remove anything not directly linked to the current discussion. Only two intelligence department representatives had been made party to the meeting as well, Priscilla and Genco, those already familiar with the Blackers' work, but no-one who may have been assisting with Hilshire's case.

Beside her, Jethro spoke up. "Have you had any luck narrowing a name down?"

The German shrugged. "We have found several..."

Bringing up the list, Monty turned her computer so that her partner could read the screen.

"...though apparently the one he contacted Anasetti under was 'Vito Genovese'. For the sake of simplicity it's the name we have been using up until now."

Across the table, Genco's brow furrowed at those words, and she cocked an eyebrow as the junior analyst quickly typed something into his mobile phone, before mouthing a curse and turning to his laptop, physically hooked into part of the SWA network, instead.

"I'm happy to continue with that," Jethro again, the hint of a wry grin cracking his features, "how about you take us from the top, and we'll decide what could use expanding upon as you go."

Hilshire nodded but, before he could start to talk, Genco spun his own computer around for the gathering to see.

"I thought so..." suddenly realising the table's attention was his, the young man paused, swallowing, "... I thought the name sounded familiar. 'Vito Genovese' was an American/Italian mobster."

Eyes turned to Hilshire, who shrugged again. "We have not been able to make contact directly, though those who have talked to him say his Italian sounded native, or very close to."

Monty looked at her handler, putting on her best sceptic's tone. "Could be a coincidence, or a feint."

"Could not be as well," the handler now turned back to Genco, "after this, do you want to quietly run the rest of the names Hilshire has?"

The analyst nodded, and Monty made a mental note to do the check herself should time allow, a second document to compare against never hurt. The trick, of course, would be letting Hilshire in on whatever information fell out, and keeping him party to any further developments, without whomever from the analysis team was _currently _handling his case catching on.

"You think he might be American?"

Priscilla's query brought her back to the conversation, but it was Jethro who answered. "It's a possibility."

"He is certainly very good at covering his tracks. A lot of the time we barely get more than two steps down a trail before losing him completely again..." now Hilshire looked across at the Blackers, "...I do not know what reason the Americans might have to join in with the Five Republics, though."

"I can think of a few." Monty's tone was dark.

She could too, none of which made for particularly beguiling propositions and, under the table, Jethro gave her knee a reassuring squeeze.

"Monty's right, there are plenty of reasons the US, or anyone else for that matter, might want a conduit into Italy. By the same token, it could be entirely possible 'Vito' here is from the industrial espionage side of things... a mercenary rather than government agent. It would be easy enough for the Padania to hire in someone like that to help them, and the Americans have some of the stiffest corporate competition around."

"It would help explain... or be explained by, I guess... their recent change in focus as well," put in Genco. "The Padania's, I mean."

"It might, but don't lose sight of the fact that this is still all speculation, so chase it for now, but with a grain of salt... continue, Victor."

Reaching forward, Hilshire sipped from a tall glass of water. "As I said: we have been struggling to track Vito more than a step or two down any one line of approach. We did _some _talking, mostly to Anasetti's peers, before the Genoa raid..."

"Did he talk to any of them directly?" Interjected Monty.

"No, but at least it let us know what to look out for. The photos helped after that, and we were able to work through people and businesses relating to the raided shipment: so the trucking company, port authority, freight forwarders..."

"Hermes?"

Hilshire nodded. "Yes."

"They're an Anagnos subsidiary."

The former Europol detective nodded again. "I was made aware of that, and followed it further from one link to another. A few people remembered speaking to Vito first hand, but those were mostly receptionists or juniors greeting him and exchanging small talk. Anyone who may have known more was not going to tell me."

"On that note..." Priscilla again, looking across at the Blackers, "... Genco was able to use that information to help firm up the links you had made originally, right up to _Marittima Italiana_."

"Nice to know."

Hilshire continued. "Plotting the points where he did make contact puts him all over Italy, and farther. We checked his bike once we had photos of it, Italian and European databases. He is smart enough to change the number plates, so it was not so straight forward, but the plates we know of have been flagged making border crossings as far afield as Ukraine, Croatia, Cyprus, Norway, and others. So far though, no clear pattern has emerged, but he most frequently seems to head for France or Austria. We also have a speeding ticket he was issued in Paris."

Now Priscilla spoke up once more. "We presume he must fly too: no-one wants to spend two days on a bike for a single meeting."

"It would make sense for him to fly but, if he does, it has not been under any of the names we have for him so far," the German looked back toward Jethro and Monty, "I would like to go through any security camera footage from the places we know he has gone, to try and build up a clearer picture of when he may have visited, how often, and what for, but the resources have not been available to do it..."

A brief pause.

"...That is the broad outline of where we are at."

Monty looked back to where she had been taking notes on her computer screen. It was a very blank page which sat before her. Hopefully it could be fleshed out a bit as they got down into the details. Right now though, if she were to take a guess at their likely next move... there was really only one option where things had been narrowed down enough to target something smaller than an entire country.

As if reading her thoughts, Jethro spoke up.

"In that case, I say we spend the coming day or so..." a glance at Hilshire, who nodded accession, "...going through what's here, and anything else Victor has, with a fine tooth comb, to see if more matches up..."

Another pause.

"...however, my gut feel right now is we will be picking up our end of the job in Paris."


	3. CH02 The French Connection

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

**Chapter 02|The French Connection**

Paris, centre for culture and the arts, home to some of the world's greatest museums and galleries, setting already for a thousand tales and stories for the masses. Taking a sip of coffee, Jethro placed his cup back on one of the small, ovoid pedestals which, as a group, were seemingly intended to serve this suite's occupants in lieu of an actual table.

_Hopefully, he would not be joining those tales._

Twisting back to one of the piece's larger, taller, siblings, the handler picked up two plastic cards rested on its surface, shuffling them to inspect a print of his own face under bright sunlight, diffused through gossamer curtains separating the suite and its rooftop terrace beyond. From the street far below wafted chattering voices, punctuated by a scooter's sharp cry, carried in on a light breeze as Paris's bustling Latin Quarter went about its morning business.

Closer however, his partner's tones layered themselves over neighbourhood ambience while she talked outside, phone in one hand, slender shape silhouetted against a clear sky. Now the girl turned again, words resolving into something recognisable as she pushed through white waterfalls of insubstantial fabric, her dress's bold primary colours adding a flash of life against the room's cool hues.

"_Oui, merci Mathilde, nous serons là bientôt."_ She paused, listening to the other speaker. _"Ehh... appelez cela une heure? Fantastique. Au Revoir."_

Dropping the mobile from her ear, Monty hung up, before turning to her handler. "Change of plans. That was Europol's liaison over at Police Headquarters, seemingly they tracked down the officer who issued Vito's ticket faster than expected. She can hold him at _Île de la Cité_ for the morning if we wish to interview him today."

"I presume you said 'yes'?"

"I did..." now, the girl looked down at her Mondrian dress, "...though a change of clothes first may not go astray."

Maintaining a hold on both IDs, Jethro followed the few steps to their bedroom, arriving at its door just as his partner sat down on the mattress, soft duvet crumpling as she began to strip off white, knee-high boots. Taking another pace over, he placed one card at her side.

"You will probably be wanting that then."

Pausing, his charge picked up the SWA provided Europol identification pass, inspecting it closely.

"Design's changed since Alexandria."

The handler nodded. "It has, though I suspect ours were out of date even then... and these are probably backed up better than what I could bodge together on the fly."

Placing the card into a thin leather wallet, his girl returned to her task. "Probably a good thing, I suspect the Paris police are going to be quizzing those a mite harder than the Egyptians did. There's only so much we were going learn rummaging through Nick and Shamus's personal effects..." divested now of her other boot she stood, turning her back to him, "...and only so far they could be held responsible for the contents of their own evidence locker... Unzip me?"

Stepping forward to oblige, Jethro found the YSL garment's small fastener, sliding it quickly from the nape of his partner's neck to the small of her back, before bringing hands up once more to gently help expensive fabric forward off slender shoulders, and within her easier reach. Waiting a moment until he felt Monty start to lift that away, the handler retrieved a tie, before retreating politely out the door.

Finding one of the lounge mirror's larger panes, he set about fixing it into a full windsor, before continuing the conversation. "Bodge or not, they worked enough to set us on Nick's forged Franklins."

"Yes, and has not _that_ turned into a fine comedy."

Pulling the knot tight and sliding it up neatly against his collar, the handler moved back to lean against the bedroom door frame. "Well, we can't be travelling too badly if Lorenzo feels he should expand the SWA's international reach."

Setting her second cuff link in place, Monty cocked an eyebrow at him. "If_ that's _the result of doing a good job, remind me to stop making an effort."

"In which case they would probably just bundle up the whole shooting match back to AISE."

"Which might be the lesser evil, _AISE_ at least have fewer avenues to accidentally blow _our _cover by." Pulling on suit bottoms to tuck her shirt into, his girl set about fixing her own tie. "Fiasco or no, it would be nice to start making some headway on Monaco's fallout again. I don't like loose ends, particularly when they're hanging from a corpse or two."

"It certainly would be nice to know how Nick's funny money found its way into his wallet... and I'm starting to wonder if our 'Vito' might have some light to shed on that particular subject."

"You think he might have been the one set us up in Monte Carlo?"

"It's a possibility, certainly if he _is_ actually Padania, and even if he's from Langley..."

Settling a shoulder holster into position, the cyborg placed her PPK in it, before giving her partner a dry look. "Forging their own currency for that variety of operation sounds just a little _too_ cute, even for the CIA."

"Maybe that is over thinking it."

"Or not, it doesn't take much for someone to decide they're being clever." Gun in place, Monty shrugged on her jacket, closing it at the top button, before running an evaluating eye over her partner. "Shall we make a move?"

Nodding, Jethro slipped around beside his girl, placing a hand in the small of her back to usher her toward the door, making their room fast as they went. Farther up the hall could be seen a housekeeper's trolley, currently unattended, and the pair instead turned toward stairs which would deliver them to ground level, past comfortably appointed landings serving double duty as communal space, subtle 30's style portraits hung in their midst.

Seven storeys, six carefully curated arrangements, and they were soon striding past the lobby desk's glowing form to be deposited onto a narrow footpath edging an even narrower street, car-lined flanks separated by just enough to squeeze another vehicle between. To their left, framed by tall buildings at the lane's end, stood the Odéon Theatre, neoclassical pillars now dwarfed by surrounding apartments, still standing guard for the Luxembourg Palace beyond. That however would need to be an adventure for another day and, turning from its sun-bathed plaza, the Blackers instead headed north, diving into bustling streets toward the River Seine's distant banks.

The Latin Quarter, that most bohemian part of Paris and, with time to kill, the pair made full use of its welcoming maze of narrow alleys. Meandering between tiny book shops and cafes, their tables spilling out onto the street, it made for a perfect environment to spot, or loose, any potential tail, putting distance on their hotel in the process. Slowly though that path started to swing north again, crossing the wide expanse of Boulevard Saint-Germain to join Rue Dauphine on its arrow-straight course toward the water-flanked Île de la Cité.

Strolling over white, balustraded arches of Pont Neuf, they crossed the island's skinny western tip, before proceeding along its northern shore beneath high stone walls of the Palais de Justice, Monty's eyes scanning far banks, dotted by cars and tiny market stalls. Reaching the building's end however, the fratello cut back along its landward face, past high gates until, seen through trees and over intervening rooftops, loomed the famous spires of Notre Dame Cathedral.

Though not their intended destination, the ancient church made a fine tourist attraction, drawing a holidaying throng its way which the pair melted into to turn down a wide pedestrian boulevard, passing along the grey edifice of Paris Police Headquarters. Halfway down its length, the Blackers broke off from that foreign tide, instead sliding toward an entrance under the shadow of a hanging Tricolour.

_Entr__é__e des Professionnels._

Noting the sign, Monty took another half pace ahead of her handler to stand by an iron gate, set just behind wooden framing, and looked toward the guard stationed inside. Returning that gaze, hand moving subtly toward a hip-mounted pistol, he twisted her direction.

"_Bonjour, je peux vous aider?"_

Despite the wary stance, his tone was friendly and helpful.

"_Oui,"_ dropping into French, the cyborg continued, "George Zusak and Adeline Theroux of Europol, _Lieutenant Intern_ Quesnell should be expecting us."

Holding a hand out through black bars, the man waited patiently while she paired Jethro's ID with her own to pass them over for inspection. Grasping a phone from the wall behind, he took a moment to study both cards more closely until whomever was on the other end finally picked up.

"Hello, Mathilde?" His eyes did not stray from the waiting fratello. "It's Jacques, I have an Adeline Theroux and George Zusak from Europol here to see you... yes... ok, I'll let them in."

Hanging the handset up, the guard placed his own ID against an RF reader, which was answered by the heavy, metallic clack of latches retracting. Hefting the gate open, he beckoned the Blackers inside.

"_Lieutenant Intern_ Quesnell will be down shortly, you can wait in here until then."

Stepping through, Monty accepted their cards back, returning her handler's as the gate clacked shut. Ahead lay a short corridor, and she moved with her partner deeper into the room presented beyond, away from light streaming in through its entrance. At his post, the guard went back to staring at the wall opposite, and she instead turned her attention to the building's interior: not all that different from the SWA, a modern organisation shoehorned into veteran architecture. In this case however, that modernisation had seemingly wended through ancient stone like a creeping growth, snaking under arches and rafters, some rudimentary effort made with paint and plaster to hide the changes, rather than put them neatly on display for all to see.

Next to her, she felt her handler lean down, talking quietly under the watchful eye of a second guard manning the space's security desk. "Do you know if this Mathilde has pulled any camera data together yet?"

"I requested she do."

The room lapsed into silence again, sounds of the city outside wafting in along stone walls. From beyond the desk however came a tapping of shoes on marble, and shortly a figure appeared wearing blues of French Police uniform, approaching rapidly down the far corridor. Pausing briefly to say something to the seated guard, it halted in front of the Blackers, holding out a hand.

"Mathilde Quesnell, you must be Adeline and George."

Grasping the proffered paw, Monty nodded. "That is us, thank you for taking the time to help out."

Giving her handler a chance to make his own greeting, the young agent took a moment to study their host. Mathilde was small, probably only an inch or so taller than herself, but with a compact, more athletic build, blonde hair done up into a low maintenance bun. Beneath it, smiling eyes gave an air of amiable competence.

_Or at least of amiability._

Now however, she was beckoning her charges across to the desk. "If you could give me your IDs again, we will need to run them properly before going any further."

Offering up both cards once more, Monty kept her expression carefully bland as they were passed on to the second guard: time to see if the Agency issued items, and their accompanying computer groundwork, were as good as she had been assured they would be. Maintaining unhurried movements, the girl turned back to where their Europol liaison was talking again.

"You look younger than I pictured on the phone, probably only a year or two behind me. I'm surprised I've not seen you before."

"This isn't our usual area of operations."

"Which is another reason I am surprised: you're very young for a field agent. Normally you should be tied to one area, one department first... maybe even here, your French is certainly very good," her eyes flicked to where Jethro was standing, "_yours_ is good also, for an Englishman, but Adeline speaks like a Parisian native."

"Which is why _she_ is doing the talking."

"I grew up in Paris for a time," volunteered Monty, "not long, but enough to acquire the accent."

"Really? I grew up around the 18th arrondissement."

"I was further south, around Montparnasse."

It was a vague reply, deliberately so, upon which Mathilde could build her own assumptions or, hopefully, finish the line of questioning off entirely. Unfortunately that seemed not to be, and the other woman was starting to open her mouth again when Jethro spoke up.

"So how does a girl form Montmartre wind up shepherding Europol agents around?"

The question was answered by a pause, then a particularly Gallic shrug, the blonde seemingly searching for a good response. His interruption however bought time enough and, handing their cards back, the desk guard gave a nod.

"All good, if you could come with me?" Waving for her guests to follow, the Europol liaison lead them out through the room's other exit.

Taking a moment to ensure she retained the correct ID, Monty slipped it back into a breast pocket. Seemingly the SWA's technology department _could_ get something right from time-to-time, though pushing her luck more than once was a less than enthralling prospect.

Ahead, Mathilde was still talking. "Brigadier Lefebvre is waiting in one of the interview rooms..."

"Did you get a chance to pull together any tracking for the motorbike?"

"We did."

"In which case monsieur Lefebvre can wait another ten minutes, I would like to quickly review what's there first." Glancing back, Monty cocked a querying eyebrow at her handler, receiving a nod in return. "Should there be anything needing further investigation it would be better we know now, rather than have to pull your man in again later."

"Uhh... of course, you may as well come to my office then."

Changing heading down a separate turn, the Lieutenant Intern led her charges along aged corridors, drawing interested glances from those they passed... well, from _some_ they passed. Others kept eyes resolutely forward, old, paranoid, or cynical enough to see suited agents trailing behind their Europol representative as trouble. Trouble they did not want to attract to themselves if at all possible.

Eventually however, Mathilde brought them to an open door, which the pair's younger half eyed distastefully, ushering the fratello through into a small office beyond. Above, a fluorescent tube cast cooler, brighter tones than the 50's vintage fittings outside, illuminating two L-shaped desks set back to back, both currently unoccupied, a third chair crammed into one corner, presumably for guests. Making her way to sit at the tidier station, their minder re-logged into her computer as, behind, Monty heard Jethro close them in. The other woman looked up at that, but didn't say anything, instead twisting her monitor around to face along the desk, revealing an open folder.

"I know I sent you a copy of the ticket Lefebvre issued, and his court record, but I have included both again just in case." She pointed to the monitor. "All the camera footage and stills we found are here. I didn't expect to be seeing you so soon, so I've not had a chance to sort any of it, but I did make a dump of the list our number plate recognition software gave back, so there is something to go on."

Double clicking to open a spreadsheet, she shuffled around so her guest could move in for a closer look, before leaning in to jab at the screen. "The far left column is footage reference numbers, which will correspond to each file, then there is date, time, camera reference number and location... do you want to drive?"

Nodding, Monty moved in front of the monitor as she heard her handler roll the spare chair over, placing a palm on one shoulder to guide her down into it under the curious gaze of their warden.

Making a show of opening Lefebvre's ticket to read date and time from it, Monty compared those back against the spreadsheet, before scrolling down to locate its corresponding file. Perhaps unsurprisingly that was the largest present and, opening it also, the girl found herself presented with a grainy, black and white image of a wide boulevard, made distant by unmistakable oversize footpaths of the Champs Elysees.

"The software cuts each clip a few seconds either side..."

Now on the monitor a large BMW touring bike pulled into the gutter, its rider resting back to remove full-face helmet as he was joined by a Peugeot hatchback, the latter positioning itself in the path of any oncoming traffic, roof lights flashing brilliant white. Unfortunately however as its occupant, presumably Lefebvre, exited his car, it became clear he was going to stand on the road side, leaving their camera with a frustrating view of the back of the motorcyclist's skull.

As the two on screen talked, drawing attention from a few passing tourists, Jethro's voice wafted in behind her. "You don't have another angle on this?"

"I'm afraid not, not that has been found yet."

"Pity."

Letting footage play out, Monty watched both vehicles disappear from view once more, before returning her attention to the spreadsheet, scanning for anything else of immediate interest. Seemingly most of what had been dredged up came from Paris, with a smattering of other towns and linking motorways.

"I presume you have a copy of this for me?"

Rolling back toward the computer, their host shook her head. "Not yet, I was going to get it for you after the interview."

"Do it now, seeing as we're here."

Standing, Monty returned her chair to its original position so Mathilde could access the keyboard once more and, moving to the room's other side, the cyborg watched while she extracted a fresh USB drive from its packaging, Jethro leaning down to speak softly in one ear.

"So? What did you think?"

"I think there's going to be a certain amount of work involved sorting through that lot, and probably some maps of Paris and France to make heads or tails of it."

"My thoughts too. It probably wouldn't hurt to check each video as we go if she's only run recognition software, for all we know Vito's stolen those plates from someone else."

That drew a noise of dry agreement. "They're likely not his only set either."

"Nothing we can do right now about that unfortunately, and we've probably some time up our sleeve before anything comes in from down south."

The room lapsed into silence again until, eventually, their liaison extracted the USB drive, bundling it up to hand over to Monty. "That should be everything, shall I take you to Lefebvre now? We probably shouldn't keep him waiting all day."

Inspecting the little piece of plastic and metal, Monty placed it securely into her suit's ticket pocket. "Lead on."

Allowing his partner to step ahead, Jethro followed her out of the room, somewhat against his own instincts leaving the door open as they had found it.

Whether by design, fault, or simple poor luck, the Europol office was placed far from the building's action, and glances through occasional visible windows saw their small party continue to circle that structure's large inner courtyard, descending stairs past its store of parked up patrol cars. Soon however, paving stones disappeared above their heads, leaving incandescent bulbs to light the corridor now laid before them, its flanks populated by pairs of numbered doors, and the spy gave felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. If this was what he thought it was...

Ahead, Mathilde opened one of the doors, ushering him and his partner through into the room beyond: a mirrored wall, small table in the middle with two chairs, one already occupied. An interrogation room, just the thing to put their interviewee at ease.

Now his attention turned to the man in question, recognisable from reviewed footage, squat, cylindrical kepi cap placed on the table before him to reveal a prematurely balding pate. Not an old man, nor particularly large man just... average. For his part, Lefebvre didn't seem to want to hold anyone's eye for too long, hands fiddling with the black cap as Mathilde closed their group in, and Jethro caught his partner's quick, distasteful, glance toward the woman's continued presence.

"Hercule, these are George Zusak and Adeline Theroux from Europol, they would like to ask you a few questions about a traffic stop you made late last year... Adeline, George, this is Brigadier Hercule Lefebvre." Now the Europol liaison paused for a second, her tone taking on a more official tenor. "For the record, I'm to remain present at all times while you're interviewing our personnel."

This time the distaste remained off Monty's face, and Jethro nodded to their host, making a point to keep his own tone relaxed and friendly.

"That's fine," now his gaze shifted to Lefebvre, "this isn't an interrogation, and we're not the CIA, but we do have some questions to help with our own investigation."

Stepping forward, he slid out the remaining free chair, partner positioning herself close enough to be part of the conversation if needed, but also allowing her to keep an eye on the rest of the room. Taking a seat, the SWA man looked across at their interviewee, folding fingers across each other on the desk.

"Thank you for sitting down with us, Brigadier."

Across the table, the policeman's hands ceasing to fiddle, nervous features fleetingly steeled. "Well, when Europol asks..."

It was only momentary however, and one could hardly blame the man for feeling cornered.

_He really could have used an emptier room._

"As I said, this isn't an interrogation. Adeline and I are, however, pursuing our own investigation and there is a chance you may be able to help us. Also, I will ask that you do not talk about what is said here with anyone else as it may jeopardise our operation."

A nod. "Sounds more like a spy film than detective work."

Jethro let a wry grin now flick across his face. "You would be surprised how much the two can overlap at times."

Reaching into a breast pocket now, the agent extracted a number of photo prints, crops from Hilshire's set, spreading them out on the table. "Tell me Brigadier, do you recognise this individual?"

Poking at the glossy pictures, the policeman looked across the table again. "Honestly, I don't know how much I'm going to be able to help you monsieur Zusak, the face is not familiar."

"Try and make at least _some_ effort to look at what you are shown."

The voice from across his shoulder was hard, edged with contempt, and Lefebvre's gaze shifted to address it, annoyance cutting again through nervousness to flash across his features. "Mademoiselle Theroux, I make multiple traffic stops every day, so you will excuse me for not remembering all of them in minute detail."

Speaking quickly to halt any further retort, Jethro drew their interviewee's attention back to the photos. "Take another look though if you could, please? Right now, anything would be useful. The stop in question was late last year, on the _Champs Elysees_. This man would have been riding the same BMW R1200RT pictured, with the same numberplates. Name, at least from the speeding ticket you wrote, of Marcello Schumann, using an Italian-issued EU license."

Glancing momentarily again around the room, the Brigadier reached forward to pick up one of the photos, studying it more carefully.

A minute passed.

Finally, Hercule looked up again.

"I think I vaguely remember him, maybe. French was certainly not his first language, his speech was broken but, honestly, that's all I can think of... which means the stop itself was probably quite routine. If it had not been I would remember more clearly."

"Nothing else? An accent maybe? Clothes?"

That got a wry shake of the head and small shrug. "Motorcycle clothes? The accent... it wasn't French, possibly more American than anything, but I don't think it could have been all that strong."

"And he wasn't argumentative, in a hurry, or try to dispute the ticket?"

"Not that I remember, which means probably not. No-one wants to get a ticket but, as I said... nothing memorable enough to make this one stand out from any other stop."

Leaning back, Jethro paused a moment, squeezing eyes part shut to pinch at the bridge of his nose. It was difficult to tell if the man was just being recalcitrant, or if he was actually going to need to somehow jog memories for every piece of information individually. "Ok then... can you remember at all which direction Schumann came from, or where he went?"

Across from him, Lefebvre's eyes skipped again to Monty, before focusing back on the more understanding interviewer. "If I stopped him on the _Champs Elysees_, then I probably picked him up on that as well. After... I would probably have continued up toward _Ternes_. That's my usual patrol route. Again though, I would remember going the same direction, so he probably did not go that way."

"You don't perchance remember where he may have turned off?"

"No."

"Alright..." The spy paused, stifling a sigh, before looking back at his partner with a questioning gaze. "I can't think of anything else."

Now the girl turned her own eyes on the Brigadier. "Were there any issues with his license or fine payment?"

That received an exasperated sound. "Look, I haven't heard anything more regarding the matter or, again, I would remember, so I presume not. If there's nothing noted, then nothing unusual happened."

"And you didn't see anything of note on the bike? Damage, markings, and so on?"

"No."

Monty's eyes returned to her handler, cocking a brow at him. "I've nothing else then either."

_And take everything just said with a grain of salt._

Waiting another moment to think, Jethro finally stood, holding out a hand as Lefebvre followed suit. Shaking it, the policeman then shared a similar, if less cordial, gesture with the girl across from him before the elder spy spoke again. "Sorry to have interrupted your day, but thank you for your time all the same."

A Gallic shrug. "I apologise for not being of more help."

"As I said: right now, everything is useful. If you think of more, let Mathilde know, and she will be able to pass it on to us."

Gesturing toward the door, the agent waited for their host to open it, allowing the Frenchman out and letting him get a little way down the corridor before speaking again. "If he does come up with anything, do let us know. You have Adeline's number."

"I will." Now Mathilde glanced between the pair, eyeing its younger half more warily than before. "Was there anything else you needed? You did pick up the USB, yes?"

"I did. I don't believe we need anything more..." Monty paused, and Jethro felt her querying gaze again turned on him.

He shook his head. "...I think you might as well show us out."

Retracing their steps, the little party returned to ground level, sunlight still doing its best to augment weak incandescent glows. As they turned toward the entrance, their liaison looked back at her two charges. "If you don't mind me asking, how much longer are you in Paris?"

It was his girl who replied. "Right now, your guess is as good as ours... until we have enough information to move on."

At that, the blonde seemed to think for a moment. "Well, I'm sure you remember some of the city but, if one or both of you want a more up-to-date tour, feel free to call me."

"I will keep that in mind."

"...and thank you for your time today," added Jethro.

That last got a smile. "That is what I'm here for."

Reaching the reception desk, still manned by the same guard, the Blackers bade their host farewell. Waiting by the gate for it to be once more unlocked, Jethro flicked eyes back as the desk officer caught Mathilde by a shoulder, saying something to her, which was answered quietly and with a glance in their direction.

_Interesting._

The clack of a latch returned him to present events however, and the fratello was ushered back onto the street beyond. Turning again toward the island's western end, Jethro waited a few steps before looking down toward his partner.

"So, what did you think?"

There was a pause before her reply came, its tone dry. "I think I felt rather closely watched in there, and came out under-informed for the trouble."

"Well, I'm sure everyone was a bit interested to know what Europol wanted with them... did you catch what was said to Mathilde as we were on our way out?"

"Barely. The chap on the desk wanting to know exactly that: what business we had with the city's Police. Fortunately Mathilde was bright enough to keep her mouth shut, unlike her office."

"Rumour mill at work?"

"_One_ possibility." Pausing as a family of tourists passed particularly close by, Monty continued. "It's nice Mathilde managed to get our data package together with some efficiency, that should help us get a head start before sending anything back to Rome. As to the rest of it, there was a bit interesting fell out of what Hercule had to say, even if his overall accuracy was perhaps dubious."

"It_ is_ looking increasingly likely Vito has joined us from across the pond though."

"It is, which makes one more reason I feel less than enthused regards people asking why we're here... I would dearly like to nail down what _his_ interest is before anything of ours somehow finds its way back to him."

"Presuming he doesn't know already." Placing a hand in the small of his partner's back, Jethro guided her through the tourist crowd and toward the Right Bank again. "How about we find something to eat, then set about getting that information as direct from the horse's mouth as possible?"

* * *

Night time in the Quarter: a time to be out and about, to find food and entertainment. From the theatre's direction could be heard sounds of patrons leaving its stone entrance and mixing with student body revellers, carried in through open terrace doors on a light breeze, gossamer curtains framing the scene behind in silhouette. Rubbing at tired eyes, Monty lifted her coffee cup from the suite's small desk, taking a sip, before scrolling down to highlight the next row on her spreadsheet.

"Ok, next entry is the same day, two hours later, and it's PA16-117-7... again."

Finding the appropriate video file she opened it up.

Short, five frames only of time-lapse footage: a BMW touring bike slowing almost to a halt, before turning out of a narrow side street and disappearing from view.

"_Rue Alfred Dehondencq_... again. Leaving this time."

Spinning her chair from the computer screen, the young agent looked toward where her partner crouched next to a large map of Paris, its folds spread across two wide, low, leather ottomans, red marker in hand. Pausing for a moment, she stood to move next to him as he added another entry beside a pre-existing cross on its surface, before carefully joining the last run of marks, ending in a side street near the city's north western outskirts.

Hoisting himself up, Jethro took a pace back, absently resting a hand on his girl's shoulder to shuffle her in front of him. Gone now was her suit, replaced by a black pencil skirt and deeply v-necked shirt, her handler swapping fine wool trousers for a pair of light blue chinos, and she felt thumbs start to massage at her back while they contemplated his handiwork.

"Well, we know why Vito wasn't turning up toward _Ternes_ then."

"And why he was on the _Champs Elysees_."

Reaching up to gently still her partner's movement with slender fingers, Monty silently studied the results of their previous few hours' labour. The camera location for each video file was marked with an "x", date and time noted beside, the probable journey paths between dashed in. Some carried additional lines as the same camera yielded multiple results, those instances getting more numerous the nearer Paris's north western outskirts they approached. Starting points varied, spread out across the city, as did the jagged lines leading from them: Vito was obviously smart enough to vary his route, and not stay in the same hotel twice. For that matter termination points, though fewer, also varied, but at this stage, their greater percentage ended in the wealthy 16th Arrondissement.

Lifting Jethro's hand away now, the girl knelt down to look closer at a roughly triangular patch of green, set just off the larger, more famous, Bois de Boulogne gardens, and around which a not insignificant number of Vito's trips found their destination.

"I would quite like to know what is of such interest to our American in _Jardins du Ranelagh_."

"Perhaps he likes Monet." Receiving a look askance, her handler squatted beside his charge. "It would probably make as good of a starting point for us as any. Question is: where? Sitting slap in the middle of the place probably won't do us much good unless Vito actually decides to wander past, and that could be weeks yet."

Eyes flicking over adjacent markers, Monty tapped at the dead-end street on their north eastern side. "His shortest visits seem to have been around _Rue Alfred Dehondencq_, so I presume that's closest wherever he's visiting. The others are probably where he's left the bike somewhere farther and walked to mix things up."

"It would be nice to go back to Mathilde and get her to pull any other camera footage from the area, but I would really like to avoid trotting into the Paris Police building any more than absolutely necessary."

"Well let's not do so because _you_ decided to visit a Monet collection." She paused. "Something did feel... off, though frankly I would rather we stay out simply to avoid pushing our luck with Rome's IDs."

From behind her came a shuffling noise, and the girl glanced backward to see Jethro drop off his haunches, stretching legs out past her. Leaving one arm to support himself, the other slipped around her waist, pulling her back to curl against him and bring an ear within whispering distance.

"Speaking of the SWA, it probably wouldn't hurt to send Mathilde's data back for Hilshire. With a bit of luck it might help draw a bead from his end."

"Let's finish going through ourselves first, then I can summarise it somewhat... though we'll need means by which to transmit it to him without the greater unwashed catching on."

"Leave Genco and Priscilla to work that one out."

"_Hmm."_

The noise was dubious at best, and Monty felt her partner's grip tighten slightly as he spoke. "Look at it this way: it's either that, or we contact Hilshire directly with instructions on how to pick it up. I don't know about you, but right now I feel the fewer trails we leave back to the SWA, the better."

Drawing a deep breath, the girl sighed. "You're right, Genco probably is the lesser evil." Lifting her handler's arm away now, she stood, smoothing her skirt down in the process. "In which case, we should probably finish this up so I can send it sooner rather than later... and decide on any other points worth surveilling, unless you intend on watching the same grass grow every day."

Rolling on to his back, Jethro looked up at her. "How far through are we?"

A glance at her computer. "Two thirds, and we've still everything outside Paris to do."

"Then we won't be finished tonight."

"We could be."

Studying his watch for a moment, the Englishman gave his girl a hard look. "No, because at some point this evening you are going to both eat _and_ sleep. Not just one or the other either, _both_. We do this for another hour, then go and find dinner."

* * *

Smoothing her Mondrian dress so it wouldn't crease, Monty changed position slightly to one more comfortable, feeling thick grass give way beneath a checked picnic blanket as she rolled backward and, from behind, came a soft grunt as the movement brought her shoulder into closer contact with Jethro's side. Possibly in response, the arm serving as her pillow wrapped up to turn a book page, briefly obscuring her own novel as they lay together, shaded by leafy trees above. Hovering briefly, it was lowered back down, not to the ground as before, but rather to take advantage of the new arrangement and rest a hand at her waist, thumb gently stroking across soft fabric.

From somewhere out of sight, deeper inside _Jardins du Ranelagh,_ came the laugh of children, brought out by their well-dressed Parisian mothers and nannies to enjoy a clear spring day, before the heat of summer arrived in full force. That was something she could have done without but, present children aside, there were plenty of other couples scattered across the lawn's cool grass to maintain their cover's viability, even for this third visit in just over two weeks. Seemingly they were not the only pair making a habit either, some faces amongst those spread out in the sun familiar from previous days. Not exciting days, slow ones, the fortnight prior spent circulating through areas Vito had visited and now, once again, they were back at the start.

"Seen anything new yet?"

Her partner had not moved, words pitched low, just enough to carry to sensitive cyborg ears.

"Not so far, difficult to whittle away who's worth attention and who's not just yet." Pausing, she lifted her other hand from where it rested atop an expensive DSLR to turn a page of her own story. Carefully aligned, the camera's powerful telephoto lens pointed toward iron fencing at the gardens' edge, then beyond, down _Rue Alfred Dehondencq's_ narrow tarmac, her handler's body obscuring it from passersby. "For the greater part it's been the same faces in and out as the last two times around."

"If it makes you feel better, the gardens are about he same... all around the earth, familiar faces."

"Anyone of concern?"

Behind her, she felt her handler shift subtly as he lowered his book to get a clearer view, surreptitiously glancing across parkland and paths.

"None what jumps out."

"_Hmm..._"

A movement drew her attention back to the street, and a twitched finger was answered by the damped mirror's rapid snap. Beyond the fence line, three people exited an older stone building, opposite the glass edifice of _Électricité Réseau Distribution France's_ offices, business names taken down during a previous walk past. Pausing on the footpath to talk briefly, the little party broke up, and Monty fired off another burst as two of three got into a waiting Citroen C6, while the third returned indoors.

"Something happening?"

Ensuring to capture the receding vehicle's number plate first, the young agent replied. "Two new out from the accountant's office, must have arrived before we did. They can't be minor clients though as Reichmont saw them down personally."

"At that sort of level, you need to make_ everyone_ feel like they're being looked after on a personal basis."

"I somehow doubt though Vito would have ridden all the way here just to see his accountant."

"No, but he could well be seeing someone _else's _accountant."

Dropping her hand from the camera briefly, Monty turned another page of her book, before placing slender fingers along her partner's arm as a breath of cool breeze ruffled grass around them.

"What we could do with is applying some names to faces, might it be worth getting at Reichmont's appointment book?"

"Maybe..." a brief pause, "... or we could send them to Mathilde to run."

While he couldn't see her features, he must have picked up on the dubious expression that suggestion drew.

"I know we didn't want to walk back into her office, but it also would not hurt to touch base again at least once rather than just evaporating into the ether."

Another pause, before the girl started to reply. "I'm not so worried about contacting Mathilde again as I am about making her too aware of our own movements. Even if she's personally clean, you saw how well her office was secured. Not to mention she was... _chatty_."

The thumb ceased its stroking, Jethro's arm instead wrapping up around to draw her in tight. "We don't need to get her on it straight away."

"In which case we may as well give the job to Genco."

"Possibly, but this time it's not so much about actually _getting_ the information as it is about maintaining relationships. It would be safer to get names direct from Reichmont, and Genco _could_ run the faces, but you also never know when you might need someone again. At the very least it might serve as a decent double-check, and prevent her wondering where we went."

"_Or,_ it might pique her interest."

Silence descended again, sounds of the parkland and city beyond beginning to filter in on the pair once more and, giving another squeeze, her partner's arm dropped back to its original position.

From somewhere behind them came the shrill squeal of a child at play, followed by laughter.

Another exit from one of _Rue Alfred Dehondencq's_ frontages, this time a moped leaving the power company, its rider pedalling briefly before the bike's tinny two-stroke motor cut in to propel it off down faded tarmac.

More photos.

Releasing the camera, Monty reached forward to once more advance her novel. These really were slow days, not unpleasant, but tedious and, at the rate they were currently going, she would need to source more books.

Suddenly, her handler's grip tightened again, and his voice came once more quietly across to her.

"Look sharp, we may be about to encounter a spot of bother."

Picking his harder tenor, the young spy released her hold on the camera again, hand moving subtly to ensure she could hook her dress's short hem quickly and access the PPK in its garter holster beneath.

Now her head rest was once more withdrawn, and the girl rolled up after it, wriggling around so she could look the same direction as its owner. Propping herself up on one elbow, she draped the other arm across her now half-sitting partner's chest to peer over his shoulder as a new shadow fell across them.

"Hello Jethro, I do hope you're not molesting poor Vesper here too badly..." the voice was plumy, forged in the halls of Eton and Cambridge, it's owner's eyes now moving to rest on her, "...or is it Monty this time?"

There was a pause, and in it the girl's eyes narrowed slightly, taking in their addressor: greying hair, aged face, before her handler finally replied.

"Algy, that's the same outfit you were wearing in Panama... where I was under the impression, by the way, you were still supposed to be keeping shop."

Above them, Sir Algernon Herbert gave a wry smile, face shaded by a white straw hat. "Technically I am but, right now, I'm here to call in a favour."

"Your timing is not exactly glorious, Algy."

"I'm sure it isn't, but I might have something of interest to you... and you still owe me an aeroplane."

That last garnered a wince but, if he noticed, the SIS Chief of Station didn't let on, instead fishing inside a navy blazer. At Jethro's back, Monty cocked a dubious brow, following his movements carefully out her peripheral vision.

"Fear not Vesper, I'm not here to blow your cover, that would defeat the purpose of calling in a favour."

Now the elder man's hand withdrew, holding a large brown envelope, and she relaxed slightly as it was dropped in front of Jethro.

"Mr. Blacker, you're needed."

Eyeing the other spy warily, her partner unwound red string holding the envelope closed, to extract a single glossy photo print. Taking a moment to study it, he handed it back to Monty. The picture was obviously taken at night, marred by a CCTV camera's grainy patina. Under blown-out lights however was laid the unmistakable spread of shipping containers across a wharf hardstand and, nestled between them... she glanced up, cocking an eyebrow once more, careful to keep any hint of surprise off her face.

Unfortunately their new companion either noticed something in that anyway, or was not buying in, because the look she received in return was equally dry. "We're Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service, Ms. Vesper... it's our _job_ to know what people are up to, particularly when it pertains to one of our own, present or past. What say we go and find somewhere more private to talk?"

* * *

Wariness of its other scattered visitors made for a quiet walk across _Jardins du Ranelagh_, Monty trotting along on the far side of her handler from Algernon, heels of tall boots sinking into soft grass, before finally reaching a stretch of gravel footpath. Out the corner of one eye, the young agent watched their new companion closely: still the same slightly rotund, slightly chinless, slightly greying man, in the same crisp white shirt and cream chinos, she had originally met in Panama... and still just as dangerously sharp to boot.

And now he had not only found them, but somehow also knew a precise piece of their recent history... a situation the potential implications of which would take some time to digest, implications she was not entirely comfortable with.

Emerging from the garden's southern extremity onto a leafy, tree-lined avenue, Algy lead the pair along a row of parked cars, eventually halting by the curvaceous, light blue shape of a Citroën DS, resting low on its haunches at the kerbside. Waiting for their impromptu host to unlock his 60's-vintage transport, Jethro opened a rear door so Monty could slide onto plush leather benching, before accepting a hessian market bag containing the dregs of their picnic. Seeing her securely closed in, he found his own place in the front, taking a position which would let her lean easily in on any ensuing conversation.

The clack of another door signalled Algy's entry and, starting the engine, he waited for it to warm as the car rose smoothly from tarmac on hydraulic suspension.

In the passenger seat, her handler glanced across at his former colleague. "Not your usual fare Algernon, I seem to remember you getting around in a Bristol."

"And I continue to do so but, when in Rome...

"...do as the French?"

Reversing slightly, the old spy flicked on an indicator, before finding first and edging out into slow-moving traffic, letting its lethargic tide carry their vehicle along, under the Bois de Boulogne and onto the Boulevard Périphérique, crossing the Seine to begin a long, anti-clockwise loop around Paris's southern outskirts.

Listening to humming tyres, Monty eventually spoke up. "I presume you wouldn't care to shed any light on how you located us?"

Pulling back in front of a lumbering lorry, Algernon glanced at her in the rear view mirror. "I'm not going to say it was easy, young Jethro here learned from the best, and he always was particularly good at disappearing. However, as I said: we_ are_ the SIS, and we have been doing this for a very long time."

She wasn't going to get an answer then, not entirely surprising, but that left her remaining options at educated guesswork and not much else. It was unlikely any leak had come from within the SWA, the only three people aware of their intended destination were, insofar as she could tell, trustworthy. Moreover, the fratello had been very careful to leave Italy aimed at Croatia, a story which would be backed by Genco, Priscilla, and Hilshire should they be questioned on the subject.

However, if the leak had not come from Italy, that left their having been found to occur in Paris itself.

Propping her head up on one elbow, the girl watched as Seine waters passed beneath them for a second time, meaning they must have made it right around to the town proper's south eastern edge.

The SIS couldn't have enough resources to scour the city inch by inch which, she was given to believe, was not really its style anyway, and it was also highly unlikely Algernon had simply chosen to wander through their little patch of parkland by pure coincidence. That meant a mole somewhere else, probably encountered by chance as part of their continued dealings, but even a mole needed to know what to look out for...

Now however, her attention was drawn elsewhere as Algy left the motorway, looping around to follow the river's path east, carrying on farther from Paris' central arrondissements and ducking finally into outlying suburbs.

There was more space here, tiny inner-city apartments replaced by houses and gardens, surrounded by high stone and iron, and the girl was given time to take it in as their driver used the narrow lines of sight afforded to clear his tail. Seemingly content with the result, he turned down another suburban street, swinging sharply into a driveway as flaking gates under ivy-topped walls opened to allow passage. No sooner had the car halted in its low rooved garage than the doors began to close again, outer wood faces apparently backed by solid steel bars. The rest of the space however more matched their outward appearance, lit by a single naked bulb and white framed casement windows looking into a small, shaded courtyard.

Allowing the car to idle down for a moment, Algy killed the engine, before motioning his guests to climb out.

"Welcome to our _Avenue des Ailantes_ safe house. Come inside and we'll discuss what's required further."

Exiting the garage, Monty waited for their host to secure it, before letting herself be guided around the courtyard's gravel path, past heavily foliaged gardens to the front door of a tall villa, shutters closed and flaking like the garage outside. From here could be seen that the solid wall ran right around three and a bit sides of the property, its fourth partly formed by the building it served, street frontage's ivy headdress butting up to ancient render in a natural barrier against would-be voyeurs.

As she felt Jethro shuffle her backward slightly, there was the rattle of a lock, and they were ushered inside onto rough stone flooring, raw wood steps leading up to the next level. Turning past those however, the fratello was directed to an equally rustic kitchen, stone sink along one wall and iron stove in its hearth, just visible under thin slits of light eking through from outside.

Squeezing past his guests, Algy flicked on the little cluster of light bulbs dangled over a whitewashed table, before hanging his hat on the back of a chair and moving to push open heavy window closures.

"Take a seat, and I do think it's still just cool enough to warrant a cup of tea."

Settling into one of the straight-backed chairs whence she could keep an eye on both door and window, the girl waited while their elder companion crossed to the iron stove, crouching down before it to block her view as a compartment opened on creaking hinges. The noise was followed a moment later by the unmistakable sound of a mechanical combination lock and swish of paper on paper. Another second passed and, with the stove once more presenting its innocently rustic face, he turned back, brushing a few white ashes from another envelope, much like the one yielded earlier. This version however was much bulkier than that received in the park, a good two inches or so thick, and was placed on the table.

"That is for you two."

Reaching forward, Monty unwound another piece of red thread holding the packet closed, withdrawing from it a stolid wad of documentation, topped by more large-format photographic prints. Making a quick study of the latter, she took a moment to ensure nothing was left in the hardy parcel, before passing them to her handler and turning attention instead to their accompanying reporting. Beside her, Jethro spread the pictures out, flicking through quickly before fixing his former mentor with an inquisitive look.

"So tell me Algy, what would cause Her Majesty's SIS have to take interest in an old US Mint press."

Holding a copper kettle under brass tap ware to fill, the older spy paused, before placing it on a more modern, though not by much, gas stove, the click of a piezo igniter accompanying his next words.

"Reasons, young Mister Blacker, reasons."

_Reasons they were apparently not going to find themselves party to._

"I must apologise for the somewhat rude contact, however time is pressing and you were difficult enough to find as it was." Joining his guests at the table, Algernon unbuttoned his blazer, letting it hang loose as he sat forward, affording the young agent opposite a glimpse of a small pistol, holstered under one arm.

Seemingly she was not the only one to notice it either. "M still hasn't made you give up that Beretta then?"

That drew a sly grin. "Not for want of trying. Passing my Walther on for something newer fobbed him off a little, but I suspect he may have finally ceased bothering... I satiate him by keeping a Browning in the office."

"But he still allowed you out to play with just that?"

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Letting the silence hang for a moment, Jethro eyed their host. "Speaking of, I'm surprised you were able to get M to sign off on this. I was under from impression he didn't very much care for me."

"He may have required a certain amount of convincing granted, but I can still make a decent argument when I feel so inclined," the elder spy leaned forward to tap the empty envelope, "and pressing circumstances do not hurt either."

Pausing for a moment, the man continued. "Moving on though, I don't know much more than the broad outline of what's needed, thus won't detain you too long. This technically belongs to the Far East Station; I'm just a friendly face to play messenger boy, so details are better found in that packet than gleaned from anything I might say."

Flicking quickly once more through her documentation to ensure nothing remained caught between pages, Monty picked up one of the photos again, studying it closer. Unfortunately there was very little detail could be made out to differentiate this wharf from one at any freight terminal around the world: same narrow, truck sized corridors, with the same standardised containers stacked in the same standardised end-on-end rows, the small shapes of people only fuzzy outlines scuttling beneath.

Thankfully, Algy began speaking again.

"These photos were pulled off a plant monitoring camera on Hong Kong's _Kwai Tsing_ wharfs about a month ago by one of our penetration teams. The footage itself is older than that mind, but they don't like to go in too often lest someone flags the incursion and spoils their fun. We caught the press components being loaded onto a truck, but lost it at the port gate, truck registration as best as we could discern, and any identification on the containers, is described in your packet."

"Do you know which direction it went afterwards?"

The elder spy shook his head at Jethro's question. "Unfortunately not… hopefully not to mainland China."

_Unlikely if the Padania still had a stake in it... one small blessing._

Placing her current photo down, the cyborg leafed quickly through its peers, before looking across also at their host. "You didn't catch a shot of what ship brought the container in."

"No, the camera wasn't angled that direction. I can however tell you that we believe the hull belongs to Anagnos Shipping out of Cyprus. I've been asked to keep an eye on anything of theirs coming through my own jurisdiction, so presumably someone is checking up if they're actually involved or just an innocent bystander."

"Greek Cyprus, with a title like that."

"Yes."

"Name?"

"_Anagnos Dragon_."

The girl's face remained impassive, attention returning to the documents before her... so seemingly it _was_ the one ship doing dirty work for the Padania, or probably more precisely a specific captain and crew, a trustworthy and reliable one: the Separatists' men, rather than those simply in the employ of puppets.

_Which made life a bit easier._

Of course if the SIS were investigating Anagnos also... now the germ of another, less than pleasant, thought started to stir in the back of her head and, as their host stood to attend a whistling kettle, she glanced toward her partner, who reached under the table to give her knee a reassuring squeeze. Shooting him a thin smile in reply, she started to speak, voice once more addressed to their companion.

"The ship's details are included?"

At his stove, the spy-master set about scalding a china teapot before putting boiled water back on its still flaming burner. "I believe so, including her sailing schedule."

"That will be helpful then."

Emptying the pot's hot contents, their host spooned tea leaves into its empty bottom, before pouring the kettle across them and setting it down to brew.

"Would either of you...?"

"How much more do you have to tell us?"

Twisting slightly at Jethro's words, he eyed the younger man over one shoulder. "Not much more off the top of my head, I've been told to keep out of that envelope myself."

"That's not a lot to go on."

"I presumed you… _two_… might have some ideas of your own."

Beside her handler, Monty again kept her face impassive: if Algernon was going to withhold secrets, then both sides could play that game... and, frankly, the less told about their own angle on the job the better. Holding her gaze for a moment, their opposite seemed to decide he wouldn't be getting any more than that, and turned back to the task immediately at hand.

Amidst the clatter of crockery, her partner opened his mouth once more. "Who's in country, anyone I know?"

A pause, as the answer was apparently considered.

"No-one and no, respectively. There's been rumours of a restructure in China's Ministry of State Security lately, and their intelligence services seem to have both been out to prove their worth. For now that has been making things quite hot, so we've had to pull back..."

In her seat, Monty stifled a disbelieving noise. If someone else's inter-service politics had caused the SIS to pull out completely, then it was not the SIS as previously painted to her.

"..._Charlie Wilkes_ is incumbent Station Head for the Far East, you'll remember _him_ Jethro, but you are only to make contact in case of dire emergency, or once you actually locate the press."

"That I can live with, though it seems a little off to ask for work done, but not also see fit to somehow bankroll it."

"Consider this down payment on a Grumman Goose."

Which meant they were on their own.

_Good._

Her handler however was speaking again, having seemingly ignored the jab. "From that I presume though you want us to locate the press in your stead."

"And get it out if you can."

"Easier said than done."

Picking up a now filled teacup, Algy returned to his position at the table. Taking a sip, he appeared to savour the moment, before fixing his former charge with a firm gaze. "You always had a good imagination Blacker, sometimes _too_ good. Use it..."

He paused.

"...now, did you want that cup of tea or not?"

* * *

Stepping from beneath the safe house's ivy-topped wall, Monty waited until her partner had secured the yard door, before letting him guide her off down the street, one hand placed lightly in the small of her back. Supposedly, about half a mile south, lay an RER station... which left plenty of time to get out of potential earshot before starting to talk.

_At least the streets were clear._

Dropping out of the SIS establishment's sight as they rounded a corner, her partner's voice wafted down in low tones. "So that was different."

Glancing up at him, she kept her tone similarly quiet. "It was. I would dearly like to know how Algernon managed to find us."

A short pause.

"You heard him luv, they're the SIS. They've more manpower, more practice, more budget, and have had significantly more time to get themselves established and dug in across the globe. Best guess: someone at the Police would have tipped them off. If they'd managed to lay hands on the same information we did, and ran the same exercise, all they would then have had to do was pick a few choice locations and wait... and let's be honest here, Mathilde would not exactly have been making acquiring that information difficult."

"Hmm."

It was not a pleasant sound, and the hand at her back moved up to a shoulder to give it a squeeze.

"Presumably whomever that was would've been told who to look out for as well, which suggests we're getting a name for ourselves in the old office."

"Yes... I don't recall your ever introducing me to Algy as 'Vesper'. That would have needed to come from somewhere else."

Another pause as a group of teenagers passed, going the opposite direction, their eyes flicking briefly toward the fratello's younger half.

"Mary?"

The girl nodded. "Mary Christmas, Vanessa Lye... or whatever she's calling herself next we cross paths."

"If the SIS has been investigating Anagnos and the press, it _would_ go some way to explaining her presence at _Moonraker_... and in Alexandria for that matter. Presuming she actually _is_ SIS of course."

"There seems an increasing likelihood of it." She paused, taking a few more steps along tree-lined footpath to gather her thoughts. "Thing is, if we believe Algy's timeframe, Alexandria, and _Moonraker_ in particular, were well _before_ the SIS pulled their Hong Kong camera footage, so it couldn't be just jumping at that one tip-off. Presuming Mary was in Grindelwald following shipping leads, or in Alex after the press, it bears wondering just how far back she has _actually_ been involved, and to what extent. To be honest it's not a line of thought I'm finding particularly pleasant."

Another pause, as this time her partner seemed to digest those words, a thumb beginning to once more work absently at her shoulder as they walked. Ahead, the RER line came into view, sunk below street level with tall, white buildings denoting its far flank. Stopping momentarily to orient themselves, the pair turned to move against traffic down a narrow, one-way lane above the railway.

Finally, Jethro spoke again. "No, it's not something I've been finding overly comforting either... and part of me is starting to wonder to just whose tune we may actually have been dancing. Of course, the question then is: do we continue the dance, and is doing so in our best interests?"

Now, Monty reached up to still her handler's thumb, before cocking an eyebrow in his direction. "Admit it: part of you is also happy to feel needed."

The reply took a moment to come, and it was preceded by a somewhat crooked grin. "Perhaps a little, but to echo your previous thoughts somewhat: I don't like loose ends, and this may just be a chance to tie up a few in one go, Vito's included..."

Another pause.

"...How's your Cantonese?"

"Not great."

"Might be time then for the pair of us to brush up."


	4. CH03 A Season for Orchids

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

_John Darme belongs to Officer_Charon, and Professor Voodoo takes credit as original owner of Genco Ribisi. _

* * *

**Chapter 03|A Season for Orchids**

While pleasantly cited upon an ancient stone courtyard, the Section 02 Intelligence Department occupied a somewhat less comfortable position within the Agency structure itself. Technically intelligence gathering and assessment fell under the auspice of Chief Draghi and Section 01, a fact the Chief seemingly felt required to regularly and pointedly remind them of. No one in Operations had ever felt entirely comfortable with that arrangement though, and so the in-house office remained: small and carefully targeted in an effort to avoid treading too hard on too many toes and, as a result, always busy.

Always.

Resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder, Genco Ribisi made sure to leave Monty's latest transmittal in its online dead drop, before letting go of his mouse to stretch mightily, for once he would not be the only person needing to access it, so he could not be the one to delete it either. Extending the stretch he leant back farther to feel fingers bump against the corkboard standing behind his desk, a recent addition, its confining presence was one he had yet to adjust to, but it did make him feel less exposed, and prevented anyone peering over his shoulder too easily.

Of course, that only really worked for casual passersby.

"Anything interesting, Golden Child?"

Letting his chair swing back upright, Genco continued forward, landing hands on the keyboard to lock his computer. Waiting half a heartbeat, he swung around to face the stocky form of Benito Bortolussi, peering past the partition's edge, one arm draped orangutan-like from its top.

Sighing, the younger man took a moment to adjust a pair of eyebrow glasses, before looking toward his fellow analyst. "I've asked you not to call me that."

"Well, you look after Blacker, and now Vitale as well, all the cush-jobs... sounds like golden child material to me."

Internally he grimaced as the man's tone carried across their airy workspace floor.

"They're hardly cush-jobs, and I really suspect Priscilla only gave me Florentino so all the international focus could be kept in one place." Now the grimace made itself visible. "Frankly I could do without him; the Blackers keep me busy enough as is."

A white lie... well a half truth at least... he really _didn't _need the extra bother, and in interests of maintaining peace, the other half of that statement he was not prepared to utter in public.

"Well, whether you want it or not, my question still stands: anything interesting Golden Child?"

"Don't know, I've not had a chance to check." Much to his own chagrin, Genco felt eyes flick away for a second, searching for a means of escape, while another thought crossed his mind. "Besides, I'll only be dealing with Florentino once he goes active."

That however earned a disbelieving look.

"_Porca Madonna_ Ribisi, I know you get the play with more exciting people than the rest of us, but pay _some_ attention to the world around: Vitale's cyborg passed her _VdCO_ a week ago."

Genco blinked. Surely if Odile had gone active Priscilla, someone, would have told him, and he would have been busy working up a package for whatever the new fratello were to be deployed after first. Not that he would bemoan missing being stuffed in a room with Florentino day in and day out but...

Feeling an overpowering urge to place eyes someplace else again, the analyst glanced at his watch, and found his much sought justification to leave.

"No I was not aware of that, and now, if you'll excuse me, I need to put some range time in."

Bortolussi snorted. "I still think you'll do yourself more harm than good carrying that thing. You're an analyst, not a field agent, start confusing the two and you'll only get in trouble."

Wrestling his desk drawer open on ancient wooden sliders, Genco extracted the Beretta 1934 rested there, standing to slip its shoulder rig on before shrugging his jacket over the top. Shoving two spare loaded magazines in one of the tweed coat's large pockets, he unplugged his hard drive from the computer and stuffed it in the other, before turning to his companion.

"Well, as you said Benito: I get to play with more interesting people than you, so I should probably be prepared to meet _other_ interesting people as well."

Turning at that, he walked quickly for the door, hoping to God the other man would not find a suitable comeback before he escaped. Only once safely in the partitioned corridor outside did his heart finally begin to descend from his mouth. That was the sort of discussion he could do without and, while most of the SWA's intelligence staff took an interest in the Blackers' activities, Benito seemed to be particularly sour at being frozen out.

_Well, if he was so hot on the idea he, Genco, would be more than happy to relinquish Florentino's reins._

Stepping out into the administration block's sunny main car park, the analyst started toward his FIAT's small, yellow shape, nestled amongst much larger and newer machinery. Pausing after a couple of paces however, he glanced at his watch once more: truth be told, he was running early for his appointment... well, sort of an appointment. Either way, he had time to kill and, shrugging, turned a heel, heading instead for the stone entry archway on foot.

_The walk would do him good anyway._

Shoes crunching across loose, bitumen-coated, gravel, Genco passed out of the courtyard, one hand rising to shield eyes from the lowering sun as he turned down the building's length.

_Should have brought sunglasses._

At that, another thought made its presence known and, patting at a jacket pocket he sighed: in his haste to exit not only had he forgotten sunglasses, but extra ammunition as well, the small box previously procured still residing half full in his desk drawer.

He certainly wasn't going back to retrieve it, not and potentially face Benito's renewed questioning.

'_Anything interesting', huh?_

One could say that: two transmittals from Monty in just over two weeks was unusual, though he doubted anyone beyond himself and Priscilla had regular enough dealings with the girl to notice...

...speaking of whom, his boss should be informed as well.

That was relatively simple to do, Hilshire on the other hand... well, that would normally also go through said boss, but changing things up a little did not hurt either, and his accusedly useless new interest in firearms training had proven helpful there.

Still mulling, Genco found the kilometre or so walk from office to range pass quickly, and soon he was strolling across the bunker's busy apron, a line of cars stretching either side of the entrance. Sliding between a silver BMW hatch and black Mercedes estate, he nodded to himself at the latter's presence, before descending stairs to push open the bunker's heavy door, muffled pops of training fire resounding through its hard walled lobby in greeting.

Training was all well and good and, after months of aborted attempts and forgotten visits, he was finally managing to get into a routine with it, but the armoury still felt an alien environment. An alien environment, and one not generally frequented by the SWA's non-field personnel, so it was with a small sigh of relief he spotted two familiar faces, lined up by the range clerk's counter.

Well... familiar, but not _that _familiar.

Fortunately the uncomfortable balancing act of when to raise a greeting was resolved by the pair's shorter half turning around, long blonde twin tails swaying. "Hello, Mr. Ribisi."

At the words, her companion also turned from ammunition and equipment being issued across the clerk's counter. "Good afternoon, Genco."

"Hello Triela, Hilshire."

Before he could say anything else however the clerk leaned forward to peer around the wall, adding his own voice to the conversation. "Back again, Ribisi?"

Nodding thanks as the fratello shuffled politely clear, he turned to the man, one hand patting at his jacket breast. "I figure if I'm going to have the gun I should probably learn to use it too."

"How's that going for you?"

The analyst hesitated, which seemed to be all the information needed.

"That good huh?" Pausing to pass a form across, the man apparently took pity. "Well, at least you're actually _here_ regularly, which is more than can be said for most of your crowd. Fill that out... I presume you want ammunition."

Taking the proffered paper and a pen gratefully, Genco nodded. "Yes, a hundred of 9mm corto, over-glasses and earmuffs."

"And targets?"

"Uhh... yes, please."

Bending over to start filling out the requisition, he watched as the facility's minder turned away toward the armoury proper, waiting until he had disappeared from sight before clearing his throat, speaking as if to break the awkward silence left by that departure.

"I see Milan had a good game."

It took a moment for Hilshire to respond. "Did they?"

"The scores are on the net."

"I'll check once we're finished here." Another pause. "Have you heard anything new out of the Blackers?"

"Not a thing, they tend to respond in big chunks at irregular intervals... umm, how are things down your end of the office?"

"We are starting to make progress again, being able to track Vito's movements back from the border has been helpful..." Trailing off, the German handler glanced around, holding his tongue as the range clerk returned carrying two, fifty round boxes of ammunition. Trading his form for those, along with targets and protective equipment, the intelligence man gestured for his companions to lead on as, clearing the desk, Hilshire continued. "Unfortunately, Italy's police are not so technologically advanced as France's, so it is a slow process... and we have now been instructed to take Florentino with us when we leave campus."

The little group paused again as Genco's brow furrowed. "I thought Odile had passed her _VdCO_?"

"She has done, and well from what I am told. However, someone decided she needs more field experience before being deployed in-role, which is why she has been coming with us."

Now a wry smile spread across the young analyst's features as he opened the range entrance, freeing loud gunshots into the lobby, covering his next words.

"I bet Florentino is just loving that."

The responding smile was thin, totally devoid of humour, and its accompanying words uncharacteristically sour. "It is making him enjoyable to work with."

Ushering the fratello through ahead, Genco split off from them, wandering down the firing line until he found a spare lane, wedged between the SRT's American, Darme he thought the name was, and Fleccia, the latter pausing to give a friendly wave. Behind, her handler's attention was split between talking to Ferro and observing as the cyborg sent shot after shot downrange at a maximum-distance target.

Personally, he had no intention of even attempting to match that feat.

Running his own target out to ten metres, the staffer swung his Beretta's safety forward with his off hand and, chambering a round, took aim. Inhaling, he held the breath as previously instructed and squeezed, feeling the gun kick as it fired.

So, Florentino was still confined to Italy, and still seemingly under observation, that would certainly explain why nothing for the man had crossed his own desk.

_Well thank God for small mercies._

Another shot.

Having him work with Hilshire was, however, a little close to home for comfort, _that_ he may need to somehow raise with Priscilla and see if she could do something about it.

The rest of his magazine was emptied into the target and, spent firearm being placed back on the table, he reeled it back in to inspect holes now scattered across the formerly pristine surface.

'_Scattered' was probably a good descriptor._

Well, at least the number of impacts on the sheet corresponded to the number of rounds fired this time. It was a start, but he was also probably not in danger of requiring another excuse to meet Hilshire any time in the near future.

* * *

Hong Kong: former jewel in the British Empire's crown, gateway to the East, centre for trade, centre for business, centre for finance, one of the most powerful cities in Asia... former outpost of the Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service, and now stomping ground for the institutions of its returned Chinese masters.

Relaxing back into comfortable business class seating, Monty felt the big Airbus lurch slightly, engines changing tenor as it continued to descend, and she looked up as a shadow fell across printed notes in her lap. Flipping over the sheaf of papers, she met the gaze of a sharply dressed air hostess, that latter offering a small face towel, rolled neatly and steaming in a pair of silver tongs.

"Hot towel, Mademoiselle Lynd?"

Taking the proffered item, she nodded thanks before dabbing at her face, the same service being extended to her handler, wedged between her and the window. Wiping his own face as the woman moved on, Jethro glanced out clear Plexiglass, before turning back to his girl and throwing her a smile.

"Looks like we'll be looping around Kowloon, always nice to get the grand tour first."

Leaning forward in her own seat, she peered past him, through the window onto cloud scattered landscapes beyond. In the distance, lights strung out across Macau's far shore, made hazy against deepening evening by humidity-laden air as it passed by their beam, flight sauntering east along the Southern Chinese coastline.

Sitting back again, she returned her partner's gaze with a small grimace, voice remaining low for his ears only. "I'm still not sure about staying on the Hong Kong side, Kowloon would probably have been handier."

That was answered with a shrug. "It's appealing believe me, though the city is that small distance and location are a bit six of one, half a dozen of the other. Besides, the only place we'd really fit in around Kowloon would be Tsim Sha Tsui with the tourists, and most anybody we'll likely want to talk to avoids the place like the plague."

"I doubt expats make much better company."

"Give and take."

Those last were spoken away from her however, Jethro instead craning around, nose against tough plastic again in an apparent attempt to peer father up along the aeroplane's course. It was an attempt in vain however, and outside the view went dark as they disappeared into another floating cloud. "Pity we're not flying in through Kai Tak: best approach in commercial aviation."

_Sometimes it really was like travelling with a child._

"Something experienced with our friend Charles?"

That brought his own grimace. "'Friend' might be pushing the definition somewhat. No, long before that, a family trip the first time... I think father may have been doing something... I didn't know Charlie had even set foot out here until a week ago."

"Didn't exactly stay in contact I presume."

"Not really, no..." now the Englishman sighed, resting one elbow on the wide centre armrest to lean in closer to his girl, a hand settling gently atop hers in the process and giving a squeeze. "Charlie was of similar seniority to Algy, and they did not always see eye to eye, so neither did I. While it makes a certain amount of sense for us to work here under our own steam anyway, let's just say I doubt he'll be shedding any tears over not being asked to help. In this case, I would be treating our own side with as much suspicion as anyone else present."

Underneath them the aircraft banked back toward land, levelling out again to the whine of dropping flaps as Monty digested that.

"I presume then we can expect a few familiar faces?"

"Familiar yes, but only friendly insofar as working for the same people, and I don't believe for a second there are no warm bodies on the ground."

"I suspect that was a given."

"I'll sketch a few characters you're possibly going to encounter later, so you know who to avoid."

That sounded like a topic requiring further discussion, but later, ideally somewhere more private.

As if on cue, clouds outside disappeared again, giving way to bright city lights below, painting misty bases burning yellow. In the place of pitch darkness, high-rise buildings stretched away down Victoria Harbour, technicolour facades reflected in its mirror, and she took the excuse to drop their conversation. Behind tall spires, dark slopes bounded the city, stretching up to meet their passing airliner as it crossed the water's inky expanse, surface speckled by a galaxy of bobbing lights, and Monty's gaze followed those away, across hazy shapes of ships riding at anchor and on to the bright wharves of Hong Kong's port, guarding the waterway's far western end.

Now, the cyborg felt their aircraft bank again, engine note rising as it looped around Kowloon, away from the Chinese mainland and back out to sea, toward the dark shape of Lantau Island, crouched beyond spindly cargo cranes. Gliding closer, she kept an eye on those, details appearing out of the heavy glow hovering above as they descended.

"Would you like to swap seats?"

"Probably too late now."

Another whirr and whine as flaps came down one more notch, their captain's French accented tones cutting through the cabin.

"Cabin crew, be seated for landing."

Craning a little farther over her partner, Monty felt him reach across to loosen her seatbelt, before nudging her slightly closer to join him at the window. That extra inch made all the difference, and the port below was drunk in through sharp cyborg eyes: long canyons of containers on hard concrete, stacked like Lego bricks by cranes hauling from ships pulled in against their fenders. Those would not be short of supply either, hulls packed bow to stern alongside massive water frontages, lining the channel out toward tall masts of Stonecutters Bridge and the harbour beyond. Algy's pictures had been taken on the western shore, and now she turned her attention to tiny shapes of people and trucks, scampering between metal cliffs, following their trails out a multitude of exits and into the night: good for logistics, bad for her narrowing down options.

And then they were past.

Maintaining her position, the girl continued to stare back down the glittering harbour like any awestruck tourist, across Hong Kong's gaudy skyline and the looming shadow of Victoria Peak behind it, until she felt her belt drawn tight, pulling her once more against the seat.

Removing his hand from the webbing tail, Jethro leaned in again. "So, what do you think?"

"I think we might want another look, I'd like some idea of where the outgoing traffic heads, and I suspect walking into the police station may prove a tad more problematic here."

"Might be hard pressed to find a decent vantage point."

"Since we're on the Hong Kong side anyway, we may as well try Victoria Peak first."

There was a pause, filled by a final whirr and clunk as landing gear locked into place.

"It might not be a bad idea to play the tourist card and hike the peak anyway... but I may have some other options too."

That earned a raised eyebrow, but no words, their place instead eventually taken by a squeal of rubber grazing tarmac and deafening roar as thrust reversers slammed into position, bodily hauling down the A380's massive bulk. That took time for such a large aircraft and, conversation over for the moment, Monty turned back to her notes.

Those at least filled the crawl from runway to gate, but unfortunately presented a less viable option once passengers began to disembark, or in the queue for immigration, express lane or no. Beyond it, the tall-ceilinged baggage claim hall also remained busy, hubbub of voices bouncing off hard walls and terrazzo flooring. Standing next to her handler, the young agent slowly scanned crowded faces around them: a smattering of internationals amongst Chinese locals, the latter talking rapidly in what, this far south, she had to assume would be Cantonese. She had spoken truth in Paris and, frankly, would be hard pressed right now to tell the prevalent local dialect from Mandarin without a prompt, but there was only so much could be learned in a few days. That said, there was also significant meaning to be gleaned just from the tone of words, and so she settled for trying to isolate individual speakers, listening for the flow of conversation; an imperfect solution, but as good of a place to start getting her ear in as any.

The wait for luggage was however mercifully short and, tearing business priority tags from two Globetrotter cases, her partner hefted them up, heading for a customs 'nothing to declare' lane.

Emerging from its far side into Chek Lap Kok's cavernous arrivals hall, Monty pulled up next to him, turning her attention to the crowd of greeters held back by steel railing: plenty of families, a few singles, crisply suited drivers holding up signs for their pre-assigned fares scattered between. Passing again over ranks of the latter, one of those placards caught her eye, and she forced her gaze past, lest lingering be taken as recognition. Apparently Jethro had seen it also, as now he bent down to speak quietly.

"Does our hotel have a limousine service?"

The response was dry. "Not that I ordered, and certainly not under _that _name."

The holder of the sign was moving now, pacing the pair toward the crowd's extremity, and she took the opportunity to better inspect him: short, little taller than herself, with wire frame spectacles and oddly drooping features, all encased in a neat black suit. That was topped by black gloves and a black cap, a driver's uniform, but the way he moved spoke of other professions.

Halting now before the pair he bowed slightly, before holding up his placard once more.

"Mr. and Mrs. Blacker? I am Lau Fei-Hung, The Upper House has sent me."

Monty cocked an eyebrow at those accented words, seemingly the sign had not been a translation error after all. "Sorry, I suspect you have us confused with someone else."

"No, I do not. The hotel has sent me to pick you up. If you do not wish to cause a scene, I suggest you accept their hospitality."

Letting his words hang, the cyborg weighed options: her pistol remained ensconced in its suitcase smuggling compartment, unloaded to boot, though the combination of paper notes and computer lent their cabin bag some heft. This early on however, the last thing she wanted to do was draw attention, and if whomever Lau worked for was feeling polite enough to not cause a ruckus...

Her handler had apparently been thinking down similar lines, as now he spoke up. "Sorry Lau, we just weren't expecting the help, how very thoughtful of them."

"We are best hotel in Hong Kong, would you like me to take your luggage?"

"I think we'll hold onto it ourselves, if it's all the same to you."

Pausing for a moment, the man seemed to shrug. "Follow me then if you please."

Sharing a glance with her handler, Monty hefted their cabin bag again to follow the newly acquired chauffeur through rapidly dispersing crowds, toward the terminal's tall glass facade and passenger pick up area beyond.

Exiting sliding doors, heat and humidity hit her full force, bringing with it scents of ozone, jet fuel, and faint damp of the tropics. Lau was moving again however, and she dropped back behind her partner as they squeezed between private cars, traipsing across public drop-off thoroughfares to the covered taxi-rank, red and silver vehicles stretched along its length making a continuing dance of arrivals and departures. Nestled amongst those however stood a black, long wheelbase, Mercedes S-Class, sinister amid blasting horns and shouts of drivers. Opening its wide tailgate, their host motioned for luggage to be handed over. Ignoring the signal however, Monty breezed past, halting by the gaping maw to inspect inside quickly, around its edges and under the floor, before standing back to nod at her partner. Taking the cue, Jethro put their cases down to be hefted inside, commodious space swallowing both whole, dwarfing them against acres of grey carpet.

"Would you like to put your cabin bag in as well?"

Reaching up by way of answer, the girl pressed a button which would close the boot, before patting at her soft duffel. "This has some breakables in it, so I'll keep it with me."

Leaving no chance of reply, the young agent started to walk again, their driver moving quickly around the car's outer flank to open a passenger door for her. Making herself comfortable in deep, plush, leather, she looked over to share a glance with Jethro as he let himself in on the other side of a deep central divider. Door closing behind him, the exterior clamour disappeared, sealed off behind double-glazed windows, and the girl set her soft bag against the driver's seat as they pulled away from the airport, serenity disturbed only by softly humming air conditioner fans.

Turning off the airport concourse, in the distance could be seen faintly glowing skies above China's Shenzhen industrial district, its sprawling mass cited to best make use of Hong Kong's less restrictive export gateway. That was soon gone however, and she shared another glance with her partner, one of his hands again finding its way atop hers on the broad centre armrest. For now, it was time to wait it out and play stupid, though the extent of stupid would depend on discovering just how much Lau's employers actually knew.

With nothing to talk about in their current company, Monty instead turned her attention to the world outside, head rolling back against a goose down rest so she could peer over the car's sill, not that there was a whole lot to see at present. High fences on one side of the airport highway and darkness of Hong Kong's vast nature reserves on the other made for decidedly uninspired viewing, the stream of taxis and buses that shared this stretch of tarmac doing little to add excitement to the trip along Lantau's north shore. The bored stare did however set useful precedent and, emerging from the island's far end onto cable-stayed bridging, Victoria Harbour's western entrance swam into picture, made bright by seemingly endless ships riding at anchor.

Not that those on this outer side of the port were of great interest either, mostly gas and bulk haulers, but she stowed away what names were visible for later reference. Cutting around the facility's rear however, their road swung back east again, disappearing into a long tunnel, fluorescent lamps casting uniform, shifting, shadows zoetrope-like across the car's occupants, before emerging once more onto wide bridging. Now she _was_ paying attention as, beyond speeding light poles, was laid the port proper, this road over its northern waterway affording a straight vision down both container wharves to Stonecutters Island at its mouth.

As they cruised around its eastern flank, the young agent drank in that view, features still common to any other port, same cranes, same ships, same trucks moving in and out of its gates. The devil however was in the detail, cranes from different manufacturers standing over ships from different companies, trucks headed to different exits to seek different destinations, all of which would hopefully provide some clue as to where their own target had vanished.

Then they were past, tarmac diving into deep urban crevasses as it began to penetrate urban outskirts proper, snaking away from the New Territories and toward neon-lit Kowloon.

Their driver however apparently had other ideas where they were going and, exiting onto another expressway, the car began to sidle along densely wooded mountains behind the city. Soon however their course changed again, plunging south, trading the jungle of trees for one of rundown buildings and narrow streets, tiny shops lining each side flashing bright signs above wares hawked on the pavement. Picking its way along pedestrian packed tarmac, curious faces turning to peer at privacy glass windows, the big Mercedes finally glided to a halt by the side of an even tighter alley.

Despite making its entrance amongst decrepit trucks, no one present seemed to pay the big saloon any heed... bar one. Outside, a wizened man watched them from atop his tall stool, positioned to keep an eye on white goods arrayed haphazardly in a shop doorway, cooling himself with a paper fan in one hand as rusting air conditioners whirred away above. Higher, spider web electrical wires linked crumbling concrete walls, peeling casement windows looking out over patched together tin and iron balconies, dull lighting inside doing little to expand on what lay behind dirty glass.

"You will get out here..." Lau paused, watching his passengers in the rear view mirror, "...do not worry, I will wait. For now, we are _polite_."

Reading emphasis on that last world, Monty cocked an eyebrow at her partner: a warning of how things _could_ go, or a reminder to extend that same courtesy?

The reply she received however was a shrug and, seeing little other option, the young agent collected her cabin bag, reaching for the door handle.

Stepping from the limousine's sealed environment, she was suddenly on the ground proper, heat and humidity of a Hong Kong night once more washing over her, bringing with it sweet, tropical scents of South East Asia, no longer tainted by airfield notes. Carried with those same, bellowing trucks overlayed harshly shouted Cantonese, echoing between concrete walls as a crash of metal out of sight was accompanied by more raised voices. That was someone else's concern however, and now the elderly guard looked directly at her, flashing a near toothless grin before gesturing toward the darkened shop interior.

Giving a mental shrug, she moved around their vehicle's stern to meet her partner at its opposite flank. In the doorway, a gold cat statue waved its paw in mechanical greeting, and she peered past it, between red and white signage, into the gloom beyond. In that darkness, strings of dim, multicoloured, bulbs hung from concrete girders did little to bring out details but, as her eyes quickly adjusted, Monty spied their apparent intended destination. Ahead, deep toward the space's back, a glow showed over carelessly arranged goods, someone's shadow moving briefly in its throw before disappearing once more.

The cat beckoned again, and she felt Jethro's hand rest at the small of her back, guiding her forward.

Inside was dingy, difficult to see, its air close and pressing, tight confines forcing the pair into single file to thread through narrow mazes of stock, toward the glowing light. That was slow progress but, picking her way around another battered piece of equipment, its younger half finally found their path open out, boxes giving way to bare concrete floor. Here, in a little cleared area at the retail space's back, someone had set up a desk, figure behind it neatly suited, watching the new arrivals as Jethro joined her, illuminated by a single desk lamp.

_Theatrical._

Standing from his chair now, the man seemed to study them a moment longer, dark shadows cast across a powerfully sculpted face, and Monty returned that gaze levelly. He was young-ish, probably in his late thirties, warm brown skin and slender, recruiting poster, looks covered in a well tailored suit of British cut.

Now almond eyes flicked to the bag in Monty's hands, before resting firmly on her partner.

"I see you bring your luggage with you. Do you not trust us, Mister Blacker?"

The words were clear, snap of an accent barely evident, and there was a pause before Jethro finally answered.

"I'd say, all things considered, I would trust you to be untrustworthy."

That got a dry laugh, carefully enunciated... the shape of a laugh, performed on stage.

"Ah, the famous British wit, now somewhat lacking in this part of the world." Abruptly the man's expression changed. Joke over. "Well Mister Blacker, we do not trust you either, which is why you are here. I am Captain Zhang Jianyu, section commander for Second Department, People's Liberation Army."

"It's always nice to feel welcomed, though I suspect the Autumn Orchid is not particularly concerned with making me feel all warm and fuzzy."

"The _Autumn Orchid_ was disbanded after The Return." Zhang's words were snapped. "Any spy competent enough to be retained in his own service would know that."

The cyborg carefully kept her pose relaxed at those words, face impassive, fighting down an urge to make some retort or reach out to her handler. For his part however, the latter seemed to ignore that barb.

"I'm sure it was... obviously there would be nothing to spy on once the British left."

"China has its interests to safeguard, that I'm sure you can understand, and these are our people now, so they will be treated as such."

"All loyal comrades of The Party no doubt... I'm not entirely certain who would be getting the shorter end of the stick." A pause and, when no retort was forthcoming, her partner sighed, one hand lifting to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "Tell me Captain, what do you want with me here? We've had a long flight, and I would quite like to go find a hotel and a bed."

Monty felt eyes slide toward her again, something else flickering behind that hard gaze as they lingered, before moving back to her handler.

"I'm sure you would." Now the captain seemed also to relax slightly, as if some carried burden were being allowed to show for the first time. "As you are so forthright, I shall do you the courtesy of replying in kind: what are you doing here Mr. Blacker? Hong Kong plays host to enough of the world's espionage fraternity, making their own varying amounts of trouble, as it is. I do not need one more adding to the mix."

"As you already pointed out, I've been absent from the SIS quite some time now."

"Yes, and the SIS we tolerate so long as their interests do not intersect ours. You, on the other hand, have disappeared from the radar almost completely, so your intentions are more... opaque."

"We're on holiday."

"In business suits."

"Aeroplanes get cold, plus a suit is both a handy thing to have and a practical way to travel, you would know that yourself, Captain." A beat as he nodded toward their companion's own attire. "What_ I_ would be most interested to know is how, and why, you were made aware of our arrival. I do not appreciate people attempting to make my life difficult sans cause."

The look became hard again, held a moment longer than perhaps polite. "That is not for you to know. Just know that we will be watching."

"Be rest assured Captain, I have no urge or intention to cause Second Department trouble."

"I hope, for your sake, that you are telling the truth. We will be _watching_, Mister Blacker, I trust you will not give us reason to meet again. Good evening to you."

That, it seemed, was their dismissal and, as the captain sat once more behind his pantomime desk, Monty turned, leading her partner back out toward bustling streets, crowded pavements suddenly distinctly less welcoming.

* * *

There was conceivably some irony to be found in the concept that Kowloon offered a more stereotypically 'Hong Kong' experience than much of Hong Kong Island itself and, perhaps in reflection of that, the journey from one to the other offered significantly less interest than that from the airport. Crossing of Victoria Harbour dispensed with via tunnel, the Blackers' car was soon pulling in under dark stone cladding their hotel's façade, seemingly without input from either fratello member.

Big limousine oozing to a halt in the low-ceilinged arrivals area, Monty changed mental gears, waiting for Lau to open her door before stepping out, bag in hand, and around to join her handler facing the small, minimalist, reception area. Before its light wood and stone entry stood a woman wearing plain, neat, greys, tablet under one arm and, as the pair's two suitcases were handed to a porter, she bowed slightly.

"Ms. Lynd, Mr. Steed, welcome to The Upper House. I am Faye Song, and will be looking after you for your stay, if you would care to follow me?"

Resisting an urge to join the porter disappearing off another direction with their luggage instead, Monty handed the cabin bag to her partner, falling in behind their host to be led inside and onto long escalators. Carrying the small party up through a dimly lit, torii-esque, tunnel, those deposited them into another minimalist lobby, sudden deserted tranquillity a far cry from the bustling city outside.

"Hotel accommodations only start from floor thirty-eight, so we have a climb first."

Now Faye continued on, past fine sculpture and glass exterior doors, to elevators at the space's far end, click of heels echoing around empty walls. Those continued their journey up, through the building's core to its upper-most levels, before walking again across the establishment proper's water-bottomed, full height, atrium space.

Another elevator ride ended in a short hallway, and the pair were directed to a plain door in its flank, set beside a glowing floor to ceiling lamp, corridor stretching back toward the atrium's void. Producing a key card, their hostess ushered them through into a world of clean, light woods and dark, sharp detailing: to the left a lounge area and table, to the right a large bedroom and bathroom beyond, panoramic glass offering spectacular views toward Kowloon from wide, cushion-festooned windowsills.

Somehow their luggage had arrived first, two cardboard suitcases placed neatly behind the bed head, itself faced out to the harbour and, checking both pieces against something on the tablet, Faye turned to her guests.

"I hope everything is to your liking?"

From where he had been inspecting their bags, Jethro gave her a cheeky grin. "I'm impressed, I don't think I saw a single stray housekeeping trolley or room service tray on our way in."

That got a polite smile. "Yes, and you never will."

"Trade secrets?"

Again the smile, this one more conspiratorial and, producing a stylus, she held it and the pad out. "If one of you could please sign?"

Taking both in lieu of her partner, Monty made the appropriate scribble for her cover, before handing them back, receiving another bow in return. "Thank you. You will find key cards in the lounge with your room amenities. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call down."

With that she was gone and, waiting for the door to close securely, Jethro began to move around the suite, slowly inspecting it inch by inch, his young partner heading the opposite direction, through a well stocked kitchenette and over the wide, L-shaped, sofa, heavy design books stacked on its accompanying coffee table. The dining setting provided, as promised, key cards along with a city guide in neat black boxes, and an iPod Touch, the latter being turned off until it could be properly checked.

Crossing paths with her partner halfway, the bedroom next received her attentions, then its large attached bathroom, voyeur and exhibitionist-friendly windows providing similarly stunning harbour views to those in the living areas from a free-standing spa, shower, and his and hers sinks.

Meeting with her handler again however, Monty shook her head, receiving a similar gesture in return. Content with that, she bent down to open their cabin bag, finally feeling safe enough to talk.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. I do believe it's clean, surprisingly."

"Could be someone expected us to change rooms immediately... or intends to play Peeping Tom." Extracting her laptop and power pack the girl stood again, back remaining to panes of glass. "I want to run a scan on that Touch before getting too carried away, but it first might not be a bad idea to clear out my computer and destroy Algy's hard copies. Clean the room may be, but after Zhang's sidetrack I feel it best we didn't leave anything laying around for idle eyes."

"The boffins did a pretty good job securing your machine."

"They did, but I will be taking the extra precaution anyway. At the very least, if someone causes it to fritz itself, the data will be off. You should probably wipe your iPad too."

There was a pause, and a nod, then Jethro shrugged, turning away as his voice became brighter. "Well_ I_ found coloured pencils, and a notebook, so once we're unpacked I'll look to doing those sketches."

Setting her laptop on the table she started it booting, before plugging into the mains. "Do you think many will actually be present?"

"Couldn't say," now her partner's words wafted in from the bedroom, accompanied by the sound of latches opening, "Zhang certainly seemed to be labouring under the impression there were agents on the ground, but who's still around will likely have changed well and truly since I was collecting Her Majesty's paycheques. That said, if Charlie _is_ here, then you can stand fairly assured he'll have brought one or two with him, probably Martin for starters."

Computer booted, Monty plugged her phone into it and, commencing the transfer of everything pertaining to their current engagement, moved through to join her handler. Finding suitcases already half empty, she inspected firearms removed from their shielded hole: two pistols, two magazines each, one suppressor between them, and fifty rounds of ammunition, all accounted for.

"Martin?"

"Martin Case, he joined the service about the same time I did... interesting piece of work. Charlie recruited him straight out of one of the better universities, old school tie and all that, and he is to Charlie what I was to Algy, a protégé, someone to take under his wing and train as he sees fit. However, while Algy and I eventually parted ways, he's stayed on."

"And you think he'll be here?"

"Where Charlie is, Martin will most surely follow. Together they were very effective, so I doubt any of the brass would see reason to split them up."

Lifting her own carefully packed Mondrian dress, the cyborg set it upon one of the surprisingly plentiful hangers provided while her handler continued to talk.

"That said, I don't even know if Algy informed Charlie we were coming. Technically it would be polite but, if he did, then the latter is unlikely to be pleased."

"Enough so to actively hinder us?"

That got a sigh as, closing up one emptied suitcase, her partner hefted it into the top of the wardrobe. "Honestly, I don't know..."

A pause now, and at it Monty glanced back, finding him standing still, one finger tapping hollowly against black, vulcanised, cardboard.

"How so?"

He started at that, shooting a small smile her way, voice however still pensive. "I just... don't. I would like to think he's professional enough not to, but I also suspect he likely considered any dealings with me dusted once I had been turfed out, a win for him. If nothing else, he would certainly be just as interested as Second Department in our movements."

Stowing the last of her own items, a lightweight yellow romper-suit, Monty passed the second case off to be put away as well, before gathering up her pistol and trailing back through to the wood-floored lounge, padding across its accompanying patterned rug to inspect her computer. Transfer complete, she unplugged the phone, flicking through quickly to ensure everything had indeed arrived safely, looking up as Jethro joined her, pencils in hand.

"What I would like to know is just how Second Department knew we were coming. It certainly wasn't on the SWA end, as far as they're concerned we're still in Paris."

Moving up beside her, the ex-SIS man placed his own firearm on the table along with its accompanying box of ammunition, before resting a hand on her shoulder. "And I suggest it's best they remain holding that notion, we're playing with the big boys now luv."

"Which means, unless we got very unlucky in France, the only other interested party is the SIS."

Another pause, and in it, his thumb started to work at the base of her neck.

"I doubt Algy would have sold us out, and I also doubt he would have let too many people in on our involvement..."

"...which leaves the next most logical choice to be someone from the Far East Station."

The thumb stopped.

Content her data was securely moved, the girl leaned down again, flicking through computer menus until she found what she was looking for. Opening a command window, she typed in the code which would set the machine wiping itself clean of all non-programme data: a blank slate, all the tools but with nothing for them to be applied on.

Her handler however was talking again. "Again, I doubt Algy would have let anyone in on what was happening who didn't need to know and, since we're not interfacing with them if at all possible..."

"...that means only a select few," she finished for him, "which brings us back to Charlie and his protégé."

"It does."

"So again: does he dislike you enough to sell us out, even to the SIS's detriment?"

Silence, then another sigh as strong arms wrapped around her from behind, their owner moving forward to squeeze closer, and this time his words were quiet. "As I said, I just don't know. I like to think Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service employs people that will put the nation's interests before their own grievances..."

Reaching up, she placed a long fingered hand gently atop that of her partner. "There's a 'but' in there somewhere."

Now she felt him move again, head tilting forward to press hard against her crown.

"There is... I said I _hoped_ the SIS's people were above personal grievances, but..." he trailed off, and the girl found herself turned to face him, letting arms snake up and around his back as the embrace became tighter, more urgent, "...well... who do you think led the charge for me to be drummed out in the first place?"

* * *

Leaning away from a set of coin-operated binoculars, Monty scowled at the humidity-hung vista stretched out before her. Four hundred and twenty-eight metres, that was how high Sky Terrace, placed atop the Victoria Peak Tower, was supposed to put her, its literature promising unparalleled three hundred and sixty degree views across Hong Kong, Kowloon, the New Territories and beyond. It would have too, had the weather decided to cooperate, and now damp air softened sunset soaked buildings across the harbour, erasing any details from sight.

"Not precisely the most conducive gawking weather."

At her back on the crowded viewing deck, Jethro leaned forward to bring his head close to an ear, one hand slipping around her waist as he did so.

"No joy?"

"I could get some general idea where the traffic's going, but any details are just lost in the haze, so it's somewhat difficult to keep a bead on any individuals."

That was answered by a finger's pressure on her chin, craning her head around to bring them nose to nose, and she offered a small smile, which earned a quick peck on the lips. "That's better. Try to look happy, it'll give us an excuse to come back with a better lens once the weather clears."

The smile became indulgent now, and she found herself shuffled away from the binoculars' pedestal, leaving them for some other unfortunate to waste money on.

Foregoing any further tourist gawping, the pair instead moved toward glass encased escalators, heading down and, letting her partner lead onto a lower step, the girl waited for him to turn, drawing her into another embrace, once more nose to nose. Another kiss, this a little longer, and she felt a hand make its way down her back, over her romper suit's wide white belt to stop at a buttock. Parting again, she kept their faces close, eyelids heavy as she cocked a brow.

"Our tail?"

Jethro gave an echoing smile. "He's tagging along. If I were to hazard a guess, this one will stick with us at least until we hit the tramway."

"Nice to know he can keep up, even if we are making it easy."

"Innocent tourists remember? Besides, it'll leave them guessing as to whether we know they're following or not."

"Not _too _innocent," now she twitched her head sideways slightly to look over his shoulder, "and you might want to consider an about-face, I'm not scraping you up off the floor."

Letting go, her partner turned just in time to avoid meeting the escalator's terminus heels first and, stepping neatly from it, he waited long enough to gather her up, one hand again finding the small of her back and guiding toward the Peak Tower's exit.

Outside, stone pavement, baked in the day's sun, sent tropical heat rebounding skyward, and the fratello made quick progress across it to the Peak Tram's uppermost station. The platform here was crowded as well, equal parts tourists and locals and, standing taller than most, Jethro kept one eye toward the entrance, waiting for their unwelcome companion.

It wasn't a long wait and, as the red car pulled in on its cable, their watcher appeared amongst the milling throng. Most likely he would be too far away to make it onto this carriage, which was interesting. If whomever was controlling the tails wanted to ensure picking himself and Monty up again, they would need eyes at each stop down, ready to follow... perhaps somewhat overzealous for a straight babysitting detail.

Ushering his girl onto the now empty car, the ex-SIS man slipped across a wooden bench, letting his partner take the aisle seat, an arrangement he had long learned better than to argue against. Drawing her in once more, he brought his head down as the tram continued to fill.

"If this is all Zhang, he's certainly keen on keeping us under close tabs."

Pausing while a family passed close by, Monty turned her head up to look at him. "He does seem to be taking a particular interest. Between this and his stunt in Mongkok, I'm starting to wonder just what he has to hide. Not that I'm complaining, but he could just as easily have pulled us in at the PLA building."

"That was rather courteous of him wasn't it?" Underneath them, the tram began to move, rolling sternward off the station's end to immediately drop, leaning its passengers against hard backed seating. "It makes one wonder if he's not trying to fly under the radar himself..."

"...In which case: what about us is concerning him enough to bother, and how would he know about it to begin with?" Monty finished for him, voice darkening. "Presuming they _are _Zhang's."

"Yes... Of course it _could_ have been simple professional courtesy as well, or posturing and, frankly, if you know where the competition is from the off, it's generally preferable not to lose track."

There was a pause, followed by a sound of acknowledgement, but no more as the tram descended into trees. Hemmed in by sheer, overgrown rock faces on one side, windows opposite offered fleeting views of the city beyond, sunlit tops of buildings glowing gold above the peak's cast shadow drawing nearer with each glimpse. Finally however, the funicular rail levelled out, grinding to a halt at its final destination and, standing with his girl, Jethro let the crowd carry them into station concourses beyond.

Staying with that human tide, the handler bobbed along in its current, meandering through tramway historical exhibits, slowing to let the swarm from their own journey flow away. Pulling up before the glass of one display, he took a moment to inspect its reflection, before leaning down as if to look closer at an item, head hovering by his partner's ear once more.

"Any ideas as to who our next customer is?"

Moving slightly to get him in view, Monty shrugged. "Some, there are a few still hanging around from our car. This time of day though, I would hope them intelligent enough to send one of the better dressed individuals, otherwise they're going to have trouble following us to dinner or drinks anywhere nice."

"Let's find out, what say we visit a few bars between here and Wan Chai?"

That received a nod and, continuing out of the small museum space, the spy ushered his companion onto wide streets. Across parched tarmac rose high walls and iron fencing of the United States consulate, lights just starting to come on its gardens and, hearing the small snort of derision uttered by the girl at his side, he guided her away, back toward the harbour.

At this end of the island, and at this elevation, the city was clean and airy, suited to wealthy expats and high-ranking officialdom; gentrified, was the term. This was not the Hong Kong he remembered so fondly, that lay ahead, or at least some of it did and, sauntering down off the lower slopes of Victoria Peak, the pair quickly found their first stop. Still in neat surrounds, he left Monty to maintain a footpath table, stepping across the small bar's threshold to soon return with two tall glasses in hand, condensation already forming in evening heat to dribble over grasping fingers.

Sliding beside his partner, one Bahamas Highball was set down before her and, removing its straw daintily, the girl ran it through soft lips, catching any residual gin, vermouth and tonic mix, before placing it neatly on the table. Lifting his own drink now, the handler raised his glass, using it as an excuse to look along the straw's vector, scanning bodies on its end. Running one arm behind his companion to tap her offside thigh, it then wrapped around, drawing her slender form up to sit on his lap, thumb caressing just below her romper's deeply unzipped front.

"White t-shirt, skinny chinos, Doc Martins?"

His voice was low, and the reply came equally so. "With blazer and slicked back hair, yes. He left the toilet just as we were leaving."

"Could be he just followed a pretty girl."

That earned a flat look. "He's the only one so far with potential."

"I'll be interested to see if he hands off again at our next stop then. Presuming this crowd could cover every station from The Peak, they should have enough to change the guard a couple of times, and they'd have to suspect we're, or at least _I'm_, looking for them." Jethro paused, taking another sip of his cocktail. "How many stations were there?"

"Not including where we got on? Five."

"Good thing you hold your drink okay then, let's see what we can do toward running Zhang out of people."

Letting conversation degenerate to small talk, the pair slowly finished respective glasses before standing to move on. Beginning a leisurely stroll from bar to bar, the warm glow of evening once more gave way to neon night, buildings becoming older and less carefully maintained as they worked gradually east through bustling streets. Exiting their final stop, Jethro allowed the slightest hint of sway to enter his step as flashing markers of Wan Chai's entertainment district spread out before them. Under lurid lighting, revellers meandered along its pavement before club entrances, here and there guarded by short skirted hostesses: visible tips of a seedier underbelly. This was where they needed to be.

Guiding his partner through the throng, past ranks of red and silver taxis, polished flanks painted into psychedelic novas by flickering signs above, he finally found what he was looking for: another entrance, watched by a safari-suited minder. Over her head, writing across the door proclaimed it to be "Tarzan's", sounds of brass, strings, and percussion issuing from inside.

Beside him, Monty eyed it distastefully. "Remind me again why we're going here?"

"For old time's sake, and because it brings back some fond memories."

Waiting for the girl's passport to be checked, Jethro paid his own dues, before guiding her through the doorway into a darkened tunnel beyond, low level lighting picking up small palms and broad-leaf rainforest plants lining either flank. The music was louder now and, continuing down, they pushed through a heavy curtain into the room beyond...

...almost collecting a waitress as she passed by the other side and, sighting the near-bare retreating back, he felt his stomach sink.

He'd forgotten about that.

Glancing down he saw his partner's eyes follow the woman, before continued to scan the room, taking in more palms, tops edging this mezzanine level's rail and lining steps down to the main floor, serviced by similarly lightly clad wait staff below.

_Leopard print, palms and plastic monkeys…_

Cocking an eyebrow she turned an unimpressed gaze on him, voice flat. _"'Fond memories'."_

That was answered with a wry half grin. "The music's good?"

"Be glad you've a grander purpose here."

Deciding silence represented the safer option, he rested a hand again in the small of her back, moving them down stairs and through crowds below as the suited band on stage finished its set. Finding an unoccupied standing table, he swung around it, leaning down to talk into Monty's ear, just in time to watch their current tail push through the same curtain.

"Any preferences for drinks?"

"I've this nasty inkling they'll be tiki-heavy. Pick something."

Leaving her be, he instead shouldered his way to the bar, scanning the menu half heartedly until a spot along its front became free. Pushing forward into that freshly cleared space, the spy flagged down one of the older barmen as his turn came up.

"I'll have a Piña Colada, and an Eye of the Tiger, if I could."

There was the faintest flicker in the server's eyes. "The Piña Colada I can do, but an Eye of the Tiger I've never heard of."

"Do you have coconut rum?"

Turning, the other man stopped to peruse tall shelves of liquor behind, seemingly missing a large bottle of appropriate spirit set directly at eye level.

"I'm sorry, but I can't see any."

Jethro sighed. "Pity, I had a friend used to make it, but I've lost contact with him now... Give me a Vesper martini instead.

Answering with a small nod, the server set about his work.

That was not a short process either, and the band was starting up again as a martini glass and hollowed out pineapple were placed before the waiting handler, who winced at the price, before collecting both to return toward his girl. Threading through the crowd, he found their table no-longer private, two dress shirted bodies towering over her diminutive form. Expats, probably, both of them significantly bigger than himself to boot.

_Sometimes being given the pretty one could be a fraught exercise._

Ensuring to stay out of the new arrivals' sight until the last moment, he pulled up at Monty's side once more, shooting a less than friendly glance at her companions as they shuffled around to keep him in view. Receiving a reply in kind, he reached past his partner to place the rum and coconut filled pineapple down, arm dropping back to rest at her waist.

"Making new friends?"

The girl however seemed to be studying garnish sprouting from the top of her cocktail.

"When I said 'pick something', I didn't expect you to return with half the Amazon in hand."

Before he could make a retort however, one of the opposite pair spoke up, eyes flashing to Jethro again before resting back on the petite girl with a sickening smile. "See? Come and have a drink with us instead."

Now his friend also joined in. "I bet we could find something more to your tastes."

"Really? And just what would you like to bet?" Even in the low light, Jethro saw two sets of eyes flick down toward his partner's deeply unzipped front at her words, and his resting hand involuntarily tightened. Before either could reply however, Monty continued and, though he couldn't see her face, he felt her lean forward slightly. The movement's accompanying heavy lidded expression didn't require much brain power to visualise.

"I'll tell you what. How about you... _gentlemen_... go and pick me something each and, if I like it, we can find somewhere else to discuss this further."

"How do we know you'll stay put."

"You're just going to need to trust me aren't you? If you can't do that here, how can you expect to do so anywhere else?"

Now the two glanced at each other, the larger one's mouth beginning to open, only to be once more cut off. "Go on, run along... it's the best offer you will get all night."

Another glance, and the pair turned, swaying slightly as they ducked away into the hubbub.

Looking down, Jethro turned his girl to face him, slipping her a quick smile. "I'm done, did you want to hang around for them to get back?"

"Not particularly."

"Thought as much."

Giving the two another few seconds to be properly gone, with enough crowd intervening to prevent their returning in a hurry, the fratello swung toward stairs, leaving untouched drinks behind.

Exiting back onto the street, Jethro carefully arranged his face into an expression of relief, before aiming his partner along its length, putting distance between themselves and Tarzan's doors.

"At least those two gave us an excuse to leave somewhat expeditiously."

Glancing at the auburn-haired figure at his side, the spy gave her another half grin, squeezing her in against himself as he did so. "There is that. All the same, and I don't know about you, but I think I've seen enough bars for one night. What say we find something to eat?"

"I think that sounds _exceptional_."

Another grin. "Good, because there's a Cantonese barbeque a few streets over may be very worthwhile visiting about now."

Rundown compared to its more gentrified twin farther west Wan Chai may have been, but the older streets made excellent ground on which to perform a half-hearted clearance drill. Devoid of a similarly handy reason to leave, their tail had been left in the club but, if Zhang were organised, a replacement should have been waiting outside and, passing the turn he should have taken, Jethro moved farther into the milling crowd.

Eventually cutting down a darker lane, leaving neon lights to silhouette anyone at its entrance, he placed Monty against the wall. Bending down to plant a kiss on her lips, he moved to her cheek before beginning to work downward, giving her excuse to look back toward the lane's entrance, one slender fingered hand settling upon the back of his scalp as he proceeded down her neck.

He was nose to collar bone before feeling himself pushed back.

"Careful, people are watching."

One hand on the zipper ring-pull just below her sternum, he lifted eyes to her face, expression querying. "Anyone we know?"

"Yes, oddly. Across the way."

Nuzzling briefly into where neck met shoulder as her caressing hand lifted him back up, he used that movement to glance sideways, catching the figure observing them from the street's far kerb, floating on the edge of a similarly dressed crowd. The blazer was over a shoulder now, but slicked back hair remained above the same features and, as another passer by looked curiously at their hiding spot, he took the opportunity to gather Monty up, hustling her toward the lane's far end, girl making a show of lifting her zipper half an inch as they went.

Merging into thoroughfare foot traffic beyond, the pair slowed to give their follower a chance to close again, and Jethro leaned down toward his partner once more.

"Zhang must be short warm bodies if we're back to the start now."

"Or he's decided not to show his full hand straight up. We're not right back to the start either, but that's definitely the same tail as followed us from the tram stop."

"I think we should call him 'John'."

That suggestion earned a withering look, and he threw it a big grin in return.

Monty cocked an eyebrow. "Feel lucky I'm willing to put up with you, no-one else would."

The grin stayed.

Passing a bus stop, Jethro's gaze swung toward its waiting double decker, finding their returned tail hurrying through the crowd in its reflective rear glass. Content they had been reacquired, he put an arm around his partner's shoulders once more, guiding her back toward their original destination.

And not before time, he was getting properly hungry.

Packed with so much wealth, Hong Kong offered a myriad of high-end restaurant options, happy to charge all comers correspondingly extravagant prices for exquisitely prepared meals. They were, however, not the only places to taste exceptional food and, turning down another neon-lit backstreet, he found what he had been seeking: a tiny shop, strings of whole cooked ducks hanging in its window.

Guiding Monty inside through a heavy strip curtain they were met by a chattering din, and he let the small space's noise, smell and heat wash over him, suppressing a smile as the crowded interior's clamour bounced off hard walls and floors. Pausing in the doorway, the pair found themselves being waved through by a small woman in a cheap vinyl apron who, bustling up, said something rapidly in Cantonese above the racket.

At her words, Jethro's smile became fixed and, trying to prevent its being replaced by a more confused expression, the Englishman tentatively held up two fingers, rapidly searching his own minimal and rusty grasp on the language. "Umm... _ngóh séung... dehng yātjèung tói?_"

The waitress looked puzzled for a moment, then a grin spread across her face. "Table?"

The grin was returned, accompanied by an enthusiastic nod. "Yes, please."

Being motioned energetically to a place up against one wall, the fratello was directed onto cheap plastic chairs, his girl taking the outward facing position, as their new hostess pointed to sheets of paper arranged under the setting's glass surface.

"Menu."

Jethro nodded, his partner echoing the sentiment. "_Ḿhgòi._"

As the woman moved away, he leaned forward. "I must admit, it's taking somewhat longer to get a handle on the language again than I would like."

"Be glad you've not had to start from scratch." Now, his partner tapped the table top. "Can you read any of this?"

Following her motion, he studied the paper beneath, small characters strewn across it, as the buzz of conversation and clatter of plastic cups and chop sticks continued around them.

"Some, the writing's the same whether it be Cantonese or Mandarin, so I've a fighting chance..." he circled one block of text with a finger, "...these are all duck."

Working down the pages to find familiar symbols, he read out what he could, trying to string them together until the waitress mercifully returned again. Placing a large jug of hot tea on the table, she pulled out a paper pad.

_At least they'd know vaguely what their order contained..._

"Food."

Pointing randomly at an entry in the duck area, he gave her a worried grin. _"Ḿhgòi?"_

Nodding, she turned to Monty, who made her own, equally random, selection.

"Drink."

At that the handler shook his head to point instead to their jug. Receiving another nod in return, the fratello was left alone again, and he took a tall plastic cup from the stack on one side of their table, half-filling it with tea. Selecting two pairs of chopsticks and two wide plastic spoons, those were dunked in to swirl through the piping hot liquid.

"It's been awhile since we played meal roulette."

"It has." Picking out two more cups, Monty set about pouring drinks, glancing outside before re-focusing on his face, voice lowering. "Looks like John has set up across the way from us."

"Good for him, I hope he's comfortable."

Accepting a set of freshly cleaned utensils, the girl pushed one full cup across to him. "Even if Zhang is concealing his hand, that he would even attempt so suggests he may be working with limited resources... I thought the standard Chinese approach was to throw people at a problem."

"Could be he's part of a smaller cell, or we're worth a bit of extra effort, but not enough for a particularly big push."

"Or, again, he's trying to fly under the radar, which raises the possibility he's not entirely got his organisation's full support."

Taking a sip of tea, the spy sighed. "I wish we had more current information on the Chinese's structure. Unfortunately, the last decent rundown I got on this part of the world was with the SIS, everything since has been pretty average..."

He trailed off as the waitress returned, carrying two meals, along with a large tub of rice. Putting the latter down, she leaned in, plates clattering on glass panes, before turning to Jethro.

"Tiger will see you. Two night. On Kellet. Dress."

"Thank you."

Looking across at his partner as they were left alone once more, he gave her another grin.

"Though, we may just be able to do something about that situation."

"I heard."

Doling out a serve of rice to his plate, the handler picked up a morsel of duck, placing it in his mouth to chew contentedly. Getting a response aside, that wasn't the only reason to come here.

* * *

Even this late, The Upper House's central atrium remained well lit, warm lamps filling in for vast tracts of glass above, reflecting off water to trace shifting patterns across high walls and installation art to the bridge at its peak, connecting hotel lounge to restaurant. Cascading over that latter came faint voices and the clink of glass, dancing on the edge of hearing, a comfortable sanctuary from bustling streets outside.

Walking quietly so as to not disturb that peace, Jethro drew level with the fratello's door, producing his key card in the process.

Before he could use it however, Monty laid a firm hand on his wrist, pointing toward the floor. Following her finger down he found what had stopped her: no hair at its base... and the room had been cleaned when they left.

Standing back he glanced up and down the corridor, finding it empty as, beside him, his partner performed her own check. Seemingly coming to the same conclusion, she unzipped her romper suit farther, withdrawing the PPK concealed at her back and sweeping the safety off, nodding at him to unlock their room.

Extracting his own firearm from its hiding place he did as instructed, before standing back to let her move swiftly inside, gun leading.

A second passed.

Then another.

"Fond memories of Tarzan's, was it?"

_All clear._

Pushing his own way in, the spy found his partner halfway through re-holstering her pistol, computer already open and booting. Despite all evidence to the contrary outside, nothing looked like it had been touched... which was not entirely comforting.

"Sorry, I honestly don't remember it being like that."

"_Really…" _the word had spikes on, "…it looked as if it dropped straight out of the 1970's."

Fortunately he was saved any more by the laptop coming online and, reading something from its screen, his girl held up two fingers: two access attempts, neither successful. That was a half blessing, who ever had broken in stopping just short of the machine automatically frying itself.

Or course, if someone had tried the computer...

Holstering his own weapon, the spy began to sweep their suite once more, checking in shadow-lines between ceiling and walls, through air-conditioning vents, before moving on to hidden blind recesses.

It did not take long to locate what he was searching for.

Feeling along the spine of a hardcover design book, probing fingers discovered a low lump which should not have been there and, opening the thick volume, he held it end on to the light. Looking down the gap between pages and cardboard, attached to the outer lining was sure enough a flexible circuit and small battery, backed by sticky transparent plastic.

Gesturing Monty over, he held it up once more for her to see, before closing the volume and placing it carefully back on the window sill whence it had come.

So, someone had decided to listen in after all.

Motioning for his partner to begin her own sweep, he picked up the hotel's provided iPod, flicking through its music collection. Playlist yielding up some downbeat, sensual, French jazz, something which would give them an excuse not to talk, he started it piping through their space, before resuming his own search. This was an issue they could have done without, admittedly not unexpected, but highly inconvenient nonetheless.

Their task was however one well practised and, meeting up with his girl again quickly, she held up three fingers, then tapped her ear: three more bugs, all listening devices... which matched his own count.

The question of course now was: what next?

Pausing for a moment to think, he spun the girl to face away from him, hands crossing just below her navel so he could speak into her ear, voice lifted minutely into the hearing range of any any snoop.

"What would you say to a nightcap before bed?"

Another silence as her head tilted back to match his gaze.

"Mmm... I think you'll need all the help you can muster getting me there."

"So that's a 'yes'?"

"Work it out yourself."

Making for the door once more he ushered his partner out, keeping one hand at her waist as the room closed and locked itself again, for all the good that did. Two elevator rides had them back at the hotel's upper lobby but, instead of heading for the escalator to ground, the pair made their way through glass doors halfway up its length. Ascending low, candle-lantern lit stairs to a rooftop green space, they found themselves amongst umbrella covered lounges, carefully manicured plants separating here from the outside world. At this hour few people remained scattered across fake grass, but none paid the new arrivals any heed as they moved to the bar, collecting a champagne flute each, before retiring to a more secluded corner of the garden. Not ideal, but the area looked thoroughly and regularly cleaned, making bugging it hopefully a short term affair.

It would have to do.

Plonking down on one of the wide outdoor sofas, Jethro leaned back, staring up at towering buildings above as Monty arranged herself crossways on his lap. Resting back against a shoulder to bring their faces close together, she let one of his arms wrap around her, fingers now slipping inside the still unzipped romper suit to stoke back and forward across soft skin, just above her belted waist.

Sipping her drink, her spare hand moved rest atop those caressing fingers.

"So that's rather inconvenient."

Pulling her closer to steal a kiss, he nodded, voice lowered for cyborg ears only. "Question now though is: what do we do with it?"

Taking another taste of champagne to buy thinking time, the girl withdrew her glass, subjecting it to study under flickering light. "I'm glad we didn't get the whole bottle, I'm not really in the mood for much more."

"Keeping up appearances luv."

"Only to a point... and I would be tempted to find an excuse to move rooms."

Jethro tapped a fingernail against his own glass, hearing the crystal ring, before replying. "If we did though, how long do you think it would take for the next to be compromised also? No, I think for the time being we stay put, save moving for if and when we absolutely need to. We've been playing stupid so far, continuing to do so for a bit will not hurt... How many did you find?"

"Four, including the book, another under the sofa, one in the bedroom shadow-line, and one in the bathroom, near the sinks."

"The same ones I found then, and audio only."

"Bar the Touch, and I would treat that as a bug also for the time being."

"It can be kept out of sight easily enough, so we can work around that, plus there's plenty of excuse to make noise in the bathroom..." he paused, now giving her a small, cheeky grin, "...and plenty of reason to close the blinds with a spa that size."

That earned him a cocked eyebrow, but he continued.

"Alternately, you're in Hong Kong, it would be a travesty to eat room service every day we're here."

Monty however still seemed to be thinking, finger now mimicking her handler's previous motion to tap against crystal, sending ripples across the flute's pale contents and beaded moisture coursing down its sides. Putting his own glass down, her partner used now spare fingers to prod her face toward his, letting lips linger until she pulled back slightly, still nose to nose, ready to begin speaking again.

"I can't help but wonder if leaving our new houseguests be is not just a tad _too _clever. We're playing stupid I realise, but you're still an ex-spy and, out of the service for awhile or no, old habits die hard. If we start getting cute it may end up arousing suspicions anyway, Zhang's... or anyone else's."

A pause.

"It's a point and, frankly, there are more choices to whom they actually belong than I really feel comfortable with, but that doesn't change that they're there, and we at least know _where_ right now." Another pause. "No, I still think we leave alone. I'm in Hong Kong, in a very nice hotel, with a very pretty girl, I have reason to be distracted."

That earned another deadpan look, the eyebrow arching once more. "Do you have a history of letting girls distract you from the task at hand?"

Mouth opening for a reflex retort, the spy froze, words never making it out... she knew the answer to that, he knew she did.

Sighing, he let shoulders slump, giving his partner a comforting squeeze. "I may have done so once or twice, yes... but not for very long, and we can always find an excuse to kick our listeners out later."

Lips closing on the rim of her glass again, Monty nodded slowly, which was probably as close to agreement as he was going to get, and so he continued.

"For now though, Tiger can't meet us for another two days, so what do we do to fill the time?"

Silence, other quiet conversations creeping in as his partner contemplated those words. Finally however she spoke up, raising her champagne to once more scrutinise it.

"Seeing as we're set on maintaining innocence, and as much as I am loath to suggest it, I think we should do exactly that: remain innocent, play stupid, play tourist..."

"...and see who decides to tag along."

Now he received a genuine smile, but it was not one of humour. "That was the thinking."


	5. CH04 Chasing Tails

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

**Chapter 04|Chasing Tails**

Lifting a hand, Monty felt her palm peel away from sweaty vinyl seating. Hong Kong's ubiquitous red and silver cabs were a far cry from the plush limousine which had been her conveyance less than a week before, but a roof was a roof and, as their driver pulled in near a white guardhouse, she turned her attention to the drenched city beyond fogging glass. Outside, monsoonal rain had abated, leaving a constant drizzle in its wake to splash from steaming pavements, turning Kowloon's tall spires across the harbour into fuzzy, multi-coloured glows against the dreary evening, tops disappearing into low hanging cloud. Sandwiching that neon show, grey water caught little of the display, lapping against this closer shore, where stood a white mass of low buildings projecting out into the bay, windows warm in front of dull waves.

On the bench's far side, Jethro finished dealing with their fare and, hearing his door open, the girl followed suit, way preceded by a cheap plastic umbrella. First long step clearing the gutter to keep cuffs of white linen trousers out of its raging torrent, she joined her handler on slick concrete, feeling the air's humid touch already beginning to bead on cool skin. Despite its former intensity, the downpour had done little to abate tropical heat and, seeking the solace of another chilled interior, she allowed herself to be guided past the gatehouse and its booms, along a concrete seawall toward the complex beyond.

From behind came the splash of tyres as a second taxi came to a halt, for all the good that would do its occupant, and moments later it could be heard pulling away once more.

Founded in the late nineteenth century by British expatriates, the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club had not acquired its Kellet Island home until the thirties, eventually finding that connected to expanding shores as constant land shortages pushed reclamation farther into the bay. While the city had grown up around it however, the clubhouse remained resolutely period, retaining its Royal charter after Handover and, stepping across its threshold, the fratello found themselves in a world of deep carpet, hardwood panelling, and polished brass.

Closing her umbrella to leave it in the stand provided, Monty followed her partner to a small reception counter, the latter reaching into a breast pocket to produce heavy folded paper, wearing the pennant of the Royal Corinthian Yacht Club in its corner.

Proffering the letter of introduction, he smiled. "Alex Harrington, I thought it polite to make myself known, rather than just blundering in."

Taking a moment to scan the presented document, the receptionist returned his smile, before handing it back and gesturing to a heavy leather-bound volume. "Thank you Mr. Harrington, if you could just sign the visitors' book, and welcome to the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Jethro let her words hang for a moment, beginning to fill out details for both members of his party before replying. "Actually, we were after a bite to eat."

"There's the Main Bar, and Bistro..." she glanced out the door, before looking the pair's attire up and down, "...but in this weather you might be better off in the Compass Room."

"Sounds like that may be the go, can you..."

Taking the hint, their opposite stood slightly to gesture deeper into the building as the book's pen was returned. "That way, then up the stairs. You will not miss it."

Nodding thanks, Monty felt herself guided away.

While a floor plan had not proven readily available on public record, for once being slightly lost was more help than hindrance and, finally climbing carpeted treads, the cyborg preceded her partner as they emerged into the building's upper level. Above, wood inlays picked out, as the room's name suggested, the points of a compass, brass installation hanging at its centre casting light onto white table cloths below. Pausing, the fratello found itself met by a neatly dressed waiter who, taking two menus in hand, started to guide them through occupied tables toward where panoramic glass overlooked the harbour, bookended by an upright piano, currently wafting airy notes across chattering diners.

They never made it.

Partway across the floor, another staff member intercepted the pair, stopping its escort with an upheld palm and quick burst of Cantonese, pointing to where another hand waved above seated heads. Halting mid-stride, Monty watched as her partner followed the gesture, and a broad grin spread across his face. Breaking off from the waiter he strode away, letting the man bustle along in their wake.

Trailing, the young spy took a moment to evaluate their new companion. Obviously a local, he would have had to be in his late fifties at least, dark hair showing the first flecks of grey over olive skin, formerly athletic build just starting to fill out. That was covered by a dark blue polo shirt, the RHKYC crest emblazoned on its breast, over linen shorts with long socks and, as they pulled up before him, he grasped Jethro's hand.

"Well, well... this is a surprise."

"Hello Allen."

Now he looked at the waiter. "They will join me, Yuen."

Bowing, their server placed menus down, holding a chair out for the fratello's female half as he left to find extra cutlery.

Hovering presence gone, their new host spoke again, voice lower this time. "Jethro Blacker. There is a name I did not expect to be hearing from any time soon."

"I hope the surprise was a good one." Gesturing across the table, the SWA man nodded to his partner. "Allen, this is Madeline Archer. Maddie, meet Allen Cheung, also known as Tiger."

"_Formerly_ as Tiger. That name has... baggage... attached I would prefer people not be reminded of. It's a pleasure to meet you Ms. Archer." Shaking hands, he gave his opposite number a questioning glance. "A little younger than your usual Blacker Girl fare, Jethro?"

Monty felt herself twitch at that remark, but the response was quick.

"She's a mite better than that, you can talk freely with her..."

The statement was met with a dubious look. "If you say so."

"...Allen used to be one of ours."

"Never officially, and I bowed out completely after Handover. Cutting ties was... safer."

"I'm sure the prospect of being paid by both sides for information didn't hurt either."

"Business is business."

The conversation tailed off as their server reappeared, neatly arranging serviettes, cutlery, and glasses for the table's newest arrivals, trading fresh implements for a drinks order and its existing occupant's dirty crockery.

Waiting until he was once more out of earshot, Allen's voice lowered again. "Actually, the current management is not so fond of my presence either."

"Ours or theirs?"

No response, earning a silent nod from Jethro, who continued. "And speaking of, how about we get down to business? I'd say we've maybe half an hour before the Autumn Orchid manages to worm its way in here."

At those words, their opposite's eyes narrowed. "Just what have you gotten yourself into?"

"That, _Tiger_, is what we're trying to find out..."

"...and, we're coming up disturbingly short on just how Hong Kong's resident spook community is currently arranged." Monty finished for him.

Now Allen returned his attention to her. "That I can help with, though I somehow doubt you came here solely to spy on the neighbours, hmm?"

Looking across at her partner now, the girl cocked an eyebrow, holding fire to let the response hang until, finally, she continued. "No, that_ is_ just fallout. We're chasing an intermodal container, forty foot variety, ISO code is MSKU, zero-zero-seven, one-one-six, check five. It should have been unloaded onto Kwai Tsing from a Greek registered freighter, _Anagnos Dragon,_ somewhere around late February or early March. What I would like to know is where it wound up after that."

"And just how much is that information worth to you?"

Another glance at her partner, this time actually handing off the conversation.

"You've never over-charged me before, I don't expect you to start now."

"That has always depended on how simple, or not, the task at hand was."

"Considering what you have delivered on previously, this should be _very_ simple." Extracting his phone, the handler typed something out, before passing it across the table. "I think that would be reasonable."

Inspecting it, the Chinaman shook his head, own fingers flashing before passing the phone back. "And I think you are living a decade in the past."

Continuing the mobile's journey on so his own partner could inspect the figure, Jethro pulled a face. "I still say you're looking high. I'm asking you to find a stray shipping container, not for names and addresses of the KGB First Directorate."

"Things are more difficult now, and I will be starting from scratch, which means engaging others, putting out feelers, taking risks; all that costs money. I could maybe drop it by five percent, and give you what I know regarding the current espionage community here as well."

Sharing a glance with her handler, the girl offered a small shrug: the ask seemed a little high but, vexingly, the going rate for information in this hemisphere was something outside her usual repertoire, so she was going to have to defer judgement. Taking her signal though, the other nodded.

"Let's hear what you know first then." That got another quizzical look, and so he continued. "You know I won't screw you, but I also want a fair deal in return."

The spy trailed off at that as the waiter reappeared, champagne bottle in hand, which was held out to Allen for approval, its dark green label emblazoned with a gold 'S'.

Rain had stopped outside now, standing water covering the city in a reflective sheen and, attention turning from where their server set about extracting the cork, Monty watched silently as a hydrofoil ferry skated past on the harbour beyond, headed east, probably making for the New Territories. She wasn't entirely comfortable with this, too much information being given away for too nebulous of a payoff. Unfortunately, with Zhang nipping at their heels and so little to go on, doling out some of the leg work was going to be a necessary evil.

The quiet percussive sound of champagne opening brought her attention back to where the waiter was pouring three tall flutes.

_Hopefully it was the right gamble to take._

Placing the heavy bottle on ice, he produced a pen and pad to take meal orders from the fratello while Jethro picked up his own drink, lifting it slightly. "To old friends..."

Repeating the toast, Monty took a sip, savouring fine, complex flavours as she watched the staffer move away again with a bow.

"...and on that note, shall you tell me about our old friends from the SIS and China?"

Pausing, Allen seemed to consider the question.

"By the sounds of things, you've already run into Second Department, and my countrymen _have_ been ramping up efforts here. The push though is coming from their Ministry of State Security, which is currently being restructured according to the ears I still have inside. If that is the case, I would say all the sharks are jostling to get a bigger bite of the pie."

Halting, the man drew at sparkling wine, and Monty used the moment to mull over his words: nothing not previously tabled by Algy, but it was nice to have some confirmation. Of course, politics being politics, if the MSS were out to prove their worth then that may also go some way toward explaining...

"Which does not explain why we were hauled in by the Army, rather than some civil servant out to make himself a name."

That got a small nod. "I was getting there: Second Department has been ramping up as well, whether to match the MSS, or move in on their turf during the chaos."

"And I'm sure there are plenty in that camp willing to use the opportunity for personal gain as well." Put in Jethro.

"It would be safe to say so." He seemed to inspect his glass. "Someone over at Second Department must be taking notice too. Rather than keeping full central control, they've been splitting personnel out into cells."

"Playing the hungry ones off in competition against each other as cell leaders I take it."

"That would be the assumption, but it's a shift from their usual, more centralised, structure."

_Which would explain Zhang and _his _operation._

"Do you have names?"

Allen's attention turned back to Monty. "A few."

He paused, and the girl drew slowly at her drink, waiting, before cocking an eyebrow. "Would you care to enlighten us further?"

"That depends if you are willing to pay or not."

Silence again, and the young spy held her opposite's gaze. Preferably she would like to know what she was getting first, but the only potential probe she had would be a gamble, one she would very much prefer not to take.

Jethro, however, seemed to have been thinking down similar lines.

"Does the name _Jianyu_ mean anything to you?"

At his words their broker seemed to jerk, swinging eyes around to bear on her partner.

"I can't say it does..."

"You're not helping your argument."

"Things have been moving quickly on the Chinese front, it takes time for information to filter down. You will get everything I know, but the situation is still... fluid."

"And how much is 'everything'?"

Allen seemed to pause again, eyes once more flicking to Monty, and the eyebrow returned to its raised position.

"Names, photos, dossiers on most permanent, upper ranking, staff to one extent or another, and whatever can be put together on the newcomers."

Now the young spy turned to shoot an unimpressed expression at her partner, who gave a thin lipped look in return, before again addressing their companion.

"So what about our friends in the other camp, the SIS? Or anyone else present for that matter."

Another sip of champagne; she could almost see mental cogs grinding as Tiger changed gears.

"Everyone is still present, though warier. The SIS in particular seem to have been keeping a low profile under Charlie Wilkes. From what I hear, most of what they _do_ undertake is focused on the MSS. I think the Army's tactics change has made them shy."

"Or perhaps the MSS has more common interests than Second Department."

The suggestion received a head shake. "Both are covering the same ground, if anything the Army has itself involved in more areas."

"And what precisely would those be?"

Halting, their opposite seemed to realise he had perhaps been giving a little too much away for free.

"How should I know?" The tone was testy.

"You were the one who just said the Army was involved in more operations."

Another pause, and finally a more exasperated noise. "Jethro, I can help you find your container, but my days of having an ear in every court are long gone. My generation, and my contacts, have moved on, or are dead, and I'm getting too old to tussle with finding new players anymore."

"Which makes me less inclined to pay your asking price."

The words hung in the air for a moment, soft piano wafting around them.

"I can drop it another five percent, but that's it."

"Five, but with an overview on the other services currently present, including any recent personnel changes, and obviously no-one finds out to whom you were talking." Her handler paused, apparently seeing the expression on the other man's face. "Come now, I'm not asking much more than a little additional clerical work."

Conversation trailed off again as their waiter made his return, plates in hand, allowing space for that to be considered. Watching a nicely cooked piece of pork belly tap down in front of her, Monty allowed her glass to be refilled, before the attendant took his leave again.

The time though had seemingly been enough for Allen as well and, sighing, he looked once more at Jethro.

"Fine, the additional five percent off, and I'll put together something on the general state of things intelligence wise..." he glanced at a black-faced chronograph, "...and with that, I should probably be taking my leave."

"You don't need somewhere to contact us?"

That got a small snort. "Nearing 'venerable' age I may be, but this is still my city. You _can_ though pick up the bill."

Standing with him, the handler made his farewells, voices rising again to more natural tones, before the Chinaman turned to Monty.

"I was glad to meet you too, Ms. Archer. Sorry I could not stay longer, but there is work to be done."

With that he was gone and, eyeing the expensive bottle of Salon still rested in its ice bucket, the girl returned to watch his disappearing back.

_That was going to put a dent in their operational budget._

Now, however, Jethro leaned in. "That was not quite as informative as I could have hoped... we need to start spending a bit more time on this side of the world to keep the contacts fresh."

"Can we trust him?"

A nod. "Yes, the trick with Tiger is making sure he commits to what he will deliver, before _you_ commit to a price."

"Is that so?" Cutting a morsel of pork, the girl chewed it slowly, thinking. "I'm not entirely sold on the reliability of his information. Call me silly, but I'm fairly certain a change in methodology should pique interest with the SIS, not scare them away."

"Could be Charlie's been prioritising one service, perhaps hoping to get an ear or two of his own in on the ground floor during their reshuffle. Personally I would prefer to split across both but..."

"...but you are not him, I realise."

Now it was Jethro's turn to finish chewing before he spoke. "Still, at the moment we're flying blind. If even only half of what we get back is good, it's better than where we're at now. More importantly though, if he can do the leg work for us finding the Padania's container, that is going to save a lot of potential exposure."

The young spy nodded, _that _she would be willing to use him for, however...

"I still think we should take whatever he gives us with a grain of salt."

"Hopefully it will be sufficient enough to at least act as background. I meant what I told Zhang: I would far prefer to avoid tussling with the Autumn Orchid, properly tussling, unless we absolutely have to... and speaking of whom."

Looking up from her meal again, Monty scanned the glass reflection, in which one of their constant minders, this one previously christened Paul, was just emerging from carpeted steps. That certainly had not taken long, less than the half hour previously tendered, not by much mind, but enough to sit up and take notice.

"Everything aside though, it is still going to be a week or two, minimum, before Tiger can get back to us..." now he gestured across the table, over Monty's shoulder, to where she could see 'Paul' conversing with their waiter, "...in the interim, what say we do something about _that_."

* * *

Engulfed by deep shadow, Monty looked back toward The Upper House, keen vision picking out the faces of reception staff in fine clarity. Here, under the Island Shangri-La hotel's main entrance, at the edge of the light, anyone returning that gaze would be hard pressed to spot her slender form, bright lobby behind robbing her position of detail.

_At least the rain had held off tonight, so far._

Really, it had been a fifty-fifty gamble as to whom would be here this evening, her or Jethro. Fortunately, Zhang's chosen lackey of the minute had decided Jethro to be the higher priority target and, on their parting ways, had left her to her own devices.

Actually, she was not entirely certain how to feel about that, but it was convenient nonetheless.

On the far side of the street a movement caught her attention and, focusing in on it, the young agent watched as her handler's figure appeared around their hotel's corner, moving at a leisurely pace toward its lower lobby. That was not her major point of interest though and, giving another moment to ensure he made it safely inside, her study turned to his trailing escort. Pausing in a fold of grey stonework, features lit from below, 'John' also waited long enough to see his mark safely home, pulling a cigarette packet from one navy blazer pocket as he did.

Tapping out a skinny paper cylinder from its bright red resting place, the 2PLA agent put the remainder away, before extracting a phone, screen briefly shifting shadows across his features until it was wedged against an ear. Unfortunately he was too distant to make out anything said but, whatever the conversation, it did not last long and, hiding the mobile again, its owner struck a match to ignite his smoke, looking directly into the floodlight between his feet in the process. Taking a deep drag he dropped the little stick of wood, grinding it out with a foot, before turning back the direction he had come.

Seizing that opportunity, Monty gave her own surrounds one last inspection. Most likely whoever had been tasked with watching the entrance would be doing so from somewhere slightly more permanent than a van on the street, but it did not hurt to check anyway.

Content she remained unobserved from this level at least, the spy began moving also, taking a longer route through lush, street-corner gardens to remain farther from her own hotel walls, before emerging onto a wide boulevard, cutting along the building's flank. Crossing it to get farther from dark stonework, she found John's form again, striding downhill toward the bay.

Careful to maintain a safe distance, the girl followed as he crossed to her own flank, descent continuing alongside the tarmac's steep incline. Dodging the overpass off its end he instead turned right, around over-grown retaining walls and onto the long stretch of Queens Road, headed east, back toward Wan Chai.

Away from upmarket hotels of the opulent Mid Levels, footpaths became narrower, more obstructed, hemmed in by towering skyscrapers and, briefly weighing her options, the young agent reduced her spacing accordingly. It was not ideal, and with each metre closer she approached her risk of being caught went up, but staying undetected was also no good should the target be lost in the process. Tailing someone through a crowd was work enough at the best of times, let alone when the competition knew exactly what one looked like but, good though the SWA's boffins may have made her vision, it would be a long time before she could see through solid objects.

Continuing on toward the older city, thickening crowds brought her even closer to maintain contact and, sidling past a glazed facade, she used its reflection to check behind herself: a last opportunity before, ahead, shining glass and steel gave way to dilapidated, rust-streaked concrete. Around it, the sheen of spit and polish was replaced by garish signage suspended above bustling crowds, separating street life from apartments above and, under flickering light, she saw John turn down an alley of small shops and eateries.

It was doubtful he would be going home already, which left either the call of hunger, or that he was clearing his own tail. She could only assume the latter and, arriving at the laneway's corner, she peered past. It was quieter down there, off the main drag, and quickly her mark's blazer-covered back was located inspecting a menu board, lights reflecting from its laminated surface. No details though, no facial features, which suggested he would be unable to see her as well, and she paused.

It was a good thing she did too as now he _did_ look up, turning around, and the young spy drew quickly back out of sight.

_Bollocks._

Though fairly certain she had not been caught, she had also broken contact, and bets were fair he would not want to hang around. Giving a count of ten, the girl stepped out into the lane again, sliding in behind a local headed the same direction.

Nothing. John was nowhere to be seen and, suppressing a growl, she pulled out from behind her impromptu cover, striding down the lane's length, peering into shops and restaurants as she went. It was a risk, and only a rudimentary inspection but, if her mark had headed out the other end, she needed to get there before he strayed too far.

Emerging onto another stretch of wide tarmac she looked around: still nothing. Nothing left, nothing right, nothing left again on the main road, and she paused another heartbeat, glancing back the way she had come. True, she could have missed her target in one of the stores, but to her right the road split again just a few metres on, cutting back on itself.

_If he was in a shop he could wait._

Decision made, Monty swung right, rounding the harder turn.

The footpath slimmed down again here, leaving space on the road's centre for tall, skinny trams and, scanning the condensed crowd she caught a flash of navy fabric. John was moving quickly, obviously trying to put some space between himself and anyone whom may have been following, and the cyborg edged off in his wake, slender form dancing through the meandering throng, once more closing the gap. Doing so, she offered up a dry word of thanks to Zhang for getting his people to prioritise Jethro: without the benefits of enhanced vision and smaller size, it was doubtful her partner would have been able to stay with the mark. As vexing as being permanently fourteen could make things generally, it had its uses.

Seemingly content with his previous efforts in paranoia however, the Second Department operative stayed his current route, following the road as it curved around into ever older parts of the city and, as footpaths closed down tighter, Monty found herself similarly narrowing the gap.

Dodging by another slow-mover, the young spy tried to grab a glimpse behind herself. While John's newfound pace made life easier in one respect, it also robbed her of opportunity to check her own tail, and that had gone on long enough now to start making her uncomfortable. For all she knew, another of Zhang's people could be closing in from behind.

Father ahead, she saw John's head twitch upwards slightly, apparently reading shopfront signs, before returning forward, and a few steps later it happened again.

The third time his movement was larger and, taking the warning, his young tail broke off her pursuit, ducking into a jeweller's doorway, watching through panes of glass as her mark paused, before ambling into a convenience store. That was good, that would give her time and, turning as if to inspect garish gold jewellery on the doorway's other flank, she took the moment to sweep her surroundings.

_Clear. Still._

Not finding any recognisable faces, Monty swung back so she could eye the convenience store once more over cheap, jade-set, rings, nose wrinkling slightly in distaste. She had never been a great fan of gold, and what now spread before her really was particularly tasteless.

"You like?"

Eyes flicking briefly sideways, she caught sight of a small man in shirt sleeves and tie.

"Not really."

"Then why you look?"

"Well I can't decide I don't like it without looking first..." Ahead, John stepped out again, plastic bag in hand. Browsing he had not been and, taking a moment to scan the street, he continued on his way. "...good evening to you."

That was met by a string of Cantonese abuse, forcing the young spy to duck briefly out of sight as she merged once more into foot traffic, avoiding its few turned heads.

Fortunately that noise was brief, nor was it out of place, and it did not take long to reacquire her target. Now their course parted from screeching tram tracks, heading instead into Wan Chai's dirty back streets. The buildings here were lower, nestled amongst towering skyscrapers all around, façades flaking away to reveal multiple layers of paint, bark rings for the concrete jungle. Instead of towering leafy giants however, hardy greenery sprouted from leaking downpipes, joining concrete cancer to chip away at crumbling walls.

Leaving the main thoroughfare, the pair's pace slowed to a crawl, footpath life spilling out into gritty streets to wash around delivery trucks, raucous local tones mixed amongst rumbling diesel engines underneath hanging walkways linking laneway sides, and the ubiquitous flickering signs. Along either flank, small restaurants and street food vendors hawked their wares, intent on poaching custom from the bustling multi-storey, twin-building, cooked food centre on this lane's far end.

Ahead, John paused again, and Monty pressed herself into the shadows between two eateries as he looked around, before letting himself into a skinny door, steps leading upward behind it.

Giving her mark another moment to get away, the girl continued along her course, coming to a halt once more in shadow, this time in the entry of a loading dock beneath one of the food market's overhanging gantries. Safely ensconced she was given a neat view of John's apartment block, frontages facing onto the main laneway and a cluttered alley between it and the market proper.

While the thoroughfare on which she stood remained busy, the more confined stretch of tarmac seemed significantly less so, wall above festooned with exposed pipe work. Certainly it was not the worst looking place around the area, not even within her current narrow field of view, but it was far from the nicest as well, windows hung with decaying casement frames, rough boxes of air conditioners poking out over makeshift eves to face market dock ventilations slits across the way.

Yes, the market, its complex melange of scents wafting down, carrying with them the chatter of diners and, waiting where she was, Monty felt her stomach growl. It had been an awfully long time since she last ate.

Above, a window illuminated on John's side of the alley, and she slunk father back into shadow as another air-conditioning compressor joined the chorus already rattling its way around concrete walls. With a bit of luck, that would be her mark's.

A minute passed.

Then another, and a shadow passed briefly across the light.

Allowing her watch to run out three more, Monty checked the window again and, content activity behind its grubby panes had subsided, set about getting an angle on its occupant.

Any cyborg, even one in her own 'detuned' state, could have made the jump from street level to a higher vantage point with ease, but in a city so densely packed as Hong Kong, it would not be a question of _if_ she got seen, but rather how many would catch her act. Or course she had her own, less superhuman, methods of reaching higher storeys as well, buy why take the risk when she did not need to?

Breaking from her hide, the girl made a quick walk toward market internal stairs, rapidly climbing toward its third floor. Even this far into evening the building remained busy, open stalls serving communal tables scattered across its concourse and, shouldering her way through the crowd, Monty felt her stomach growl again.

Fresh air of the higher pedestrian bridge found her some respite from hunger inducing scents, but only some. The second market building to which this walkway connected was lower than its sibling, putting her now level with its roof, again surrounded by small kitchens under a tin canopy, blocking any access to its edges. Halting instead at the pathway's end, the girl leant against steel railing, giving herself sightlines on the closer corner of John's accommodation. Counting off windows to find his apartment, she extracted her phone to tinker away at it, similar to any girl her age, shuffling a few steps sideways in the process to get a better angle into her former tail's abode.

It wasn't much of a view, obstructed by the rusting air conditioner filling one frame place of glass, but it was enough. Inside she could see a small square of room, papers arranged neatly across a table just visible and, while John was _not _currently evident, the edge of a laptop also protruded into sight, vibrating slightly as someone hammered away at it.

She couldn't wait here long, but hopefully he would move before she had to up sticks and carry on. Stabilising her phone on the bridge handrail, the young spy quickly took a photo of what little she could see, before bringing the tiny lens to bear on bustling streets beneath, one eye remaining on her target. Good as that eye may have been however, whatever documentation the opposing agent had out remained illegible from this distance.

A minute passed again, then five and, making a show of inspecting her watch, the girl leaned forward to tap her mobile's corner against the guardrail thoughtfully. She should be moving on and, while coming back would not be ideal, she was probably pushing her luck in terms of how long she could so conspicuously loiter.

Switching cameras on the phone, its facing lens was used to do a surreptitious sweep of the crowd at her back, small sensor struggling in low light.

_Not perfect, but it would have to do._

In the window below however, a movement caught her attention, and refocussing on that square she saw a hand reach out to close the laptop. Checking she had the correct camera selected, the young agent retrained it on her target as John leaned briefly into view, gathering up documentation, before returning once more out of sight.

Another heartbeat, then a figure passing along the room's length, head obscured by the window frame, documents in hand. That last caused Monty to pause, waiting to see what he came back with.

Nothing. Empty arms.

That was good, she now had a rough idea where those documents might be stored, which would do her for tonight.

And now it was most definitely time to leave.

Snapping a few more shots of the building and street for good measure, the young spy did a quick about face, scanning food centre patrons as she disappeared into their midst, phone dropping into a deep pocket.

She had, frankly, been in place far longer than was comfortable, and now it might not be a bad idea to put some less visible distance between herself and here.

Striding through the crowd, Monty made her way toward the rooftop's far side, confident steps continuing between two food stores, into the claustrophobic gap separating their backs and the building's edge. It was dank back here, smell of decay wafting from scraps inevitably lost by surrounding kitchens into pools of foetid water washing up against the kerbing she now stood beside, blocked drains preventing it from trickling off into the alley below.

Stepping around something unrecognisable which was slowly disintegrating across rooftop concrete, the girl surveyed what lay before her. Even in this somewhat decrepit part of the city the markets were lower than their surrounding buildings, and going upward was going to expose her, which brought its own problems. She was _going_ to get spotted by someone, there was just no way around it, the trick was ensuring she was not spotted by the_ wrong_ someone. However, if she could get even a block or two away without touching ground, it would vastly reduce her risk of being tracked back to John's safe house.

Either way, she could not afford to stay up for long.

Eyeing a crumbling window ledge across and above thoughtfully, she checked her phone was securely stowed then, taking two quick paces, stepped onto the guardrail to leap lightly upward. Arcing across the deep gap, one foot was wedged against a protruding concrete pier and she pushed against it for purchase to propel herself higher, slender fingers catching the sill, hauling her up onto it. Not stopping however, one of the multitude of hanging drainpipes gave enough purchase to quickly ascend the vertical face, rolling bodily over an upper handrail onto the apartment block roof, landing on the balls of her feet.

Going from that crouch into an easy jog between built-up rubbish, the young agent allowed herself a small smile: yes, any cyborg worth her salt could get up a storey or three with little difficulty. How many could make their efforts appear as those of a regular human being was, however, an entirely different matter and, if she was going to be seen, her performance couldn't appear as anything _but_.

The edge of this roof was fast approaching and, not breaking stride, she bounded up onto its handrail, fingertips brushing powdering paint lightly to continue a flat arc over the alley far below, knees collapsing as she hit the opposite block, tumbling into a roll to push forward once more.

Directly ahead, the next tower stretched skywards, barricading her path to the main road beyond: too much effort for too little gain.

Opposite however, diagonally across a wider stretch of tarmac, bamboo poles jutted out from green shade cloth, crawling up the outside of another crumbling apartment block and, changing course, Monty angled toward it. The road below would be too wide for even the most competent human acrobat to cross in one hit and, reaching the edge, she instead fell from it to squat against vertical concrete, fingers just gripping the roof, looking down, searching.

Finding what looked like a decent target, the girl dropped, spinning through midair to land catlike atop the concrete parapet of balconies below, putting her just above a multitude of neon signs stretching out over the street. Moving swiftly until once more above a likely looking candidate, the young agent kicked sideways into another airborne tumble, halting forward motion to drop lightly atop it, close to solid fixings so it wouldn't sway, before dancing out along its length.

While large, the steel gantry did not span the entire gap, but it was far enough and, reaching its end, Monty continued on, thrusting again out into space, trading height for distance until she slammed into the building opposite. Practised hands caught the parapet rail to swing against concrete, legs compressing to thrust her back up and under her hold onto the narrow ledge beyond. From there, another jog had her at this building's end, vaulting intervening fencing before floating through space once more to skate between bamboo poles, rolling onto scaffold deck with a clatter.

Safely behind the shade cloth's protective shield, the girl finally slowed, placing steps carefully so as not to shake structure anymore and give away her presence: the landing had been bad enough for that, she didn't need to broadcast additional telltales.

Finding a foothold on lashed down flooring, the young spy slunk along this building's length, rounding its corner before looking down on bustling streets below, their glow filtered through heavy cloth. Light on the outside was fine, that would help keep her hidden, but she needed a way down without simply dropping into the milling throng's presence.

At least now she was low enough to be level with shops and restaurants rather than apartments and, attention turning to the tower's crumbling face, she continued along her swaying walkway until a likely looking window presented itself. Pausing, the cyborg placed one ear by it, blocking the other so she could concentrate on what emanated from inside.

_Silence._

Shrugging, she wedged fingers behind steel framing to haul the single pane open, glancing surreptitiously through to inspect what lay beyond.

That, as it turned out, was a somewhat squalid looking bathroom, empty paper towel dispenser and overflowing bin suggesting it to be of the public variety. That was good, and the girl swung inside, feet landing on either flank of a stained squat toilet.

Taking a moment to return the window to such state as she had found it, Monty made use of the sink to wash residual dirt and powdered paint from her hands, before standing back to inspect her reflection in a corroded mirror. Adjusting a few stray strands of hair back into place, she straightened her outfit, before making for the exit.

As luck would have it, the facilities were indeed public and, emerging from their door, she found herself in the cramped, humid corridors of a small shopping arcade, shoehorned in beneath apartments overhead. Nothing flash, nothing fancy, probably not somewhere foreigners tended to frequently venture and, feeling a few curious gazes begin to swing her direction, she continued on in search of a path back to ground.

Descent pausing just long enough to purchase a trinket or two the cyborg stepped, bag in hand, onto the broad pavements of Hennessy Road, running east-west down slender flats between mountains and bay. More usefully, it was also home to the city's iconic double-deck trams and, finding a stop, she caught the next service heading west, watching faces as they boarded or alighted the vehicle: none recognisable as having been brought from the aged shopping centre through which she had exfiltrated herself, nor anywhere else for that matter. Not that there was much point in concealing where she and her partner were staying, but it would be preferable that no-one on the other side saw her return from this end of town.

With that in mind, she let the tram roll past its closest stop to their hotel, abandoning hard, wooden, seating father west, past the high court. Climbing tall stairs allowed her to continue around its back, buildings on her left, well kept parklands rolling skyward up Victoria Peak on her right, a far cry from decrepit urbanism less than two kilometres down the road.

Fortunately tram stops were not placed far apart, and a short walk had her approaching the Upper House's dark façade, opposite that direction in which she had left in pursuit of John.

Inside, gloriously empty elevators made for a quick journey to her own floor and, tapping out a faux all-clear on the fratello's door, she let herself in.

"I'm back."

"In the lounge."

Following her partner's voice, the girl found him laid out on their sofa's wide cushions, shoes missing but chinos and shirt still present, bugged design book propped up on his chest.

As she entered, his head lolled over to look at her. "How did you go?"

Depositing her plastic bag on the table, Monty turned a small smile on him. "It's nice to sometimes just look around on your own, and I picked up a few trinkets for the relatives back home."

"Anything good?"

"No, it's all tacky and atrocious, but the younger ones might like it... there's no accounting for people's tastes."

That earned another smile and, rolling up onto his feet, Jethro padded over to wrap strong arms around her, planting a kiss atop her head. "Well, at least some of that's out of the way then. You ready to head out for dinner?"

Disengaging just far enough to look up at him, Monty gave a small, tired, chuckle. "Actually, I think I'm just about ready for a bath, feeding, and no further requirement to stand on my own two feet for the evening's remainder."

"Bath of the shower, or actual, variety?"

"Actual."

That got a pause before, leaning down to steal another kiss, her handler stepped back, pushing her toward the bedroom.

"Run along then, I'll order up. Did you want anything in particular?"

Removing shoes, she considered that for a moment. "I don't have a menu. Pick me something seafood based?"

Hearing an answer in the affirmative, Monty moved through to set the suite's large, standalone, stone tub filling, before retreating once more to their bedroom, gaze turning to the brightly lit skyline outside as she stripped off humidity dampened clothes. Placing those neatly into a hotel laundry bag, another though struck her, bringing with it a grimace: whoever was eavesdropping on them would have heard her comment about tourist trinkets.

_Now she was actually going to have to take the things with her when they left._

Uttering a sigh, the slender girl returned whence she had come, killing bathroom main lights on the way to leave just warm point illumination. Finding its centrepiece bath almost full, the tap's flow was quelled, and she stepped gracefully into it, settling into warm water with a contented noise. Feeling aches and pains of the day start to eke away, she looked once more toward the skyline spread out beyond panoramic windows, sparkling bright behind low mood lighting. As inconvenient as never breaking the 'travelling couple' routine could be in some respects, it certainly had its advantages as well.

Relaxing back once more, she lolled farther into a watery embrace. Now of course lay ahead another round of the waiting game, letting things stabilise after her leaving Jethro to his own devices that afternoon. The last thing they needed was for Zhang to begin assigning two tails at any particular moment, that could be... decidedly irksome. Now was time to let their competition get comfortable again.

From behind came the quiet clap of a door closing, followed by whirring motors as bathroom blinds began to slowly descend and, rolling her head over, she found Jethro padding across from the door, naked bar a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist. Settling beside the tub so their heads were together, she gave a small smile as her partner reached over to tilt her chin up, moving in to take another kiss. As it continued, those fingers ran gently down her neck, into the water and across her collar bone, tracing a line beneath one small breast to finally rest at her side, tickling lightly over smooth skin.

Pulling back, the former SIS spy eyed her tenderly. "Room service said they would need twenty minutes. I asked for them to hold off a... little longer."

Now Monty cocked an eyebrow, wry smile flitting soft lips to accompany it. "Is that so? I'm not certain if I should be appreciative, or point out I've not eaten since before midday."

"If you want, I can get hurry them up again and feed you here."

"With you coordinating I would only wind up swimming with dinner."

Whirring motors stopped as the blinds seated home and, reaching across her, Jethro pushed a heavy steel button down, which was answered by the hum of machinery and whoosh of water jets as the spa started up, bubbling around the girl in their soft massage.

Leaning closer, his voice dropped further. "So? How _did _you go?"

Mirroring that movement, the cyborg started. "I managed to follow John to his safe house, at least that's my current assumption as to its function. He had documentation and a computer in there, I couldn't see much but there are photos of what I could. Presuming those were related to us, I definitely think it worth going back for another look."

There was a pause as her partner mulled that over.

"The intent was always to go and take a look, though it _is_ nice to know the effort will likely not be in vain. What we need now is to remove John long enough that you've time to snoop around, and get out of _here_ unseen to boot."

That earned another cocked eyebrow. "And just how do you propose we do those? Parting ways may be viable a second time, but I wouldn't count on a third, and I'd prefer to keep round two in reserve."

"Frankly the ball's in their park now, so it could be a bit of a wait on timing anyway, which may not be a bad thing depending on how easily spooked Zhang is. As to getting you out of _here_..." Jethro looked upward, apparently intent on the ceiling while he thought, "...well, Song was very proud of how all her linen gets dealt with out of sight, perhaps it's time we figured out precisely how that's achieved."

* * *

Trundling down narrow tarmac between buildings and motorway, the linen truck slowed to a halt, waiting its turn to enter an onramp toward one of Hong Kong's cross-bay tunnels. Rumbling at idle, its tarpaulin rear cover shifted slightly, a lithe figure slipping from beneath, quickly scampering across the footpath to now closed store fronts. Shimmying up a slender bamboo pole and back into the same scaffold as had served on her previous visit to this end of the city, Monty paused to ensure she had not been spotted, watching on as her transport's light turned green and it pulled away, oblivious to the exiting stowaway.

It had taken over a week before John obliged them by once more picking Jethro up at night and, while their current lack of information was still forcing the fratello's progress to a crawl, the time had been put to good use. Mostly that had involved avoiding any real spook-like activities and, a small grimace crossed her face, getting Zhang's people used to the idea that her partner may be occasionally allowed out on his own. However, somewhere in there had also been found opportunity to discover where The Upper House sent its laundry.

Glancing at the street far below, the agent pulled off a dark grey flat cap, holding it close to her chest to minimise light spill from her phone as she checked for messages. Nothing, her handler still had his tail in tow.

_Or something else had happened._

Pushing that latter thought aside, she slipped the mobile away, double checking it was properly secured behind dark charcoal leggings before replacing her cap. What Jethro did was out of her hands now. She had her own part in this job to play, and the faster she completed it, the sooner she could have her partner back off the street.

Hong Kong never truly slept, but this late at night its bustling pavements had ebbed, and she scampered across rooftops, light traceuse's touch leaving little but rushing air in her wake, following a longer, more difficult route back to John's safe house. Despite having shut for the night, the food market's lower side was given a wide berth in favour of its taller sibling, and she tripped across gravel to look down into the alley between it at her target apartment block.

While the market's cooked food section may have long since closed, rumbling trucks still echoed up from below as fresh produce was brought in for the next day's proceedings, hauled down from the New Territories and China. The quieter alley provided some respite from that, but she would be better staying well above ground level if at all possible, and her attention instead turned higher, studying her intended destination.

Entering through casement windows had already been deemed infeasible, potential to cause frames visible damage trying to reach internal latches too high, but a small open terrace area offered more tantalising prospects. Strung with washing lines, it presumably represented communal space and, giving it a last once over, Monty took two steps to send herself arcing across the alley, rolling with her landing to cushion the fall.

Cut into the apartment block wall, a door lead onto John's floor and, placing leather-gloved fingers upon the handle, she twisted.

If this really were a communal space then...

Metal moved under her grasp, and the spy gave a small sigh of relief: one less holdup she need deal with.

Pulling rickety wood open slightly she peeked through the crack, before stepping into a dingy corridor beyond. While not squalid, it had certainly seen better days, paint heavily weathered, chipped and streaked by mildew stains. From somewhere emanated the sound of a television set and, moving forward under flickering florescent tubes, she counted off doors until she was standing in front of what should be John's safe house.

No time to lose. Deserted right now it may have been, but the corridor was still public access and, placing an ear against incongruously solid timber she listened briefly, before producing a folding knife, the blade of which was run around the gap between panel and frame. Finding no sign of telltales Monty returned it to its pocket, swapped for a thin leather wallet, which in turn gave up a tension wrench and slender hook tool.

At the corridor's end lay a set of stairs, from which now wafted slurred tones, wending their way up from the entrance below: not what she needed. She could rake if required, but that was a hit and miss affair at best and, putting a small amount of torque on the door lock plug, she set to work.

Feeling back with her curved pick, she counted off pins, five in total and, finding the farthest rearward, began working it slowly until, with a small click, the plug shifted a fraction under her tensioning thumb.

_This had better be the correct room._

The voices were closer now, climbing upward, and working forward she repeated the process.

Four.

Three.

Two.

Nothing difficult so far, but whomever was approaching could only be on the the next landing down, close enough to make out individual voices and staggering, drunken feet.

Edging the final pin up, she suddenly felt the plug jump again, before binding against her tool, eliciting a growl as she glanced toward the stair once more: spool pin, not particularly challenging, but something she could do without right now as well.

Above the stair balustrade she could see a black haired scalp, pausing as it swayed in place, another just below and behind. If they started moving again...

Suddenly the head disappeared, followed by loud retching.

_Waiting for the other shoe to drop._

She couldn't count on much of a reprieve, ten, maybe fifteen seconds at best and, easing pressure on the wrench slightly, she jammed her hook once more against the recalcitrant pin, pushing harder.

With another small click it too jumped across the shear line, and she felt the plug rotate smoothly as black hair appeared once more at the corridor's end. Removing both tools, she slunk inside, closing the door quietly and checking it was again locked.

John's room was dark, lit only by light seeping from the city outside, and she waited silently in the gloom until rolling footsteps had taken themselves upward and out of reach.

That murk would be fine were she here solely for her own benefit, but she was going to need better than that and, closing ragged curtains, she flicked on the light, filling the room with a dim, incandescent glow. Giving eyes a second to adjust, Monty surveyed what lay around her. Apparently that which she had spied through the window constituted much of it: a table with two chairs on scuffed vinyl, worn rug beneath doing little to warm the space. Beyond it a small kitchenette supported both sink and single-burner stove, bookended by a combined shower/toilet unit.

By the standards of cheap Hong Kong accommodation it was actually not bad.

The space's other end however was where her interest likely lay, the direction John had taken his documents and, turning that way, she moved to investigate a low bed and free-standing wardrobe. The latter proved tightly packed, hangers crammed in along its length, speaking of her mark's sartorial requirements.

_That, or he was somehow related to Kara._

If she had time it might be worth getting photos of what was in there, however that would be a nice-to-have, rather than a need and, moving on, she knelt down to inspect the bed. A laptop lying atop it remained ignored: John had been using paper documents, which were easier, so she wasn't going to bother with the computer unless she absolutely had to. Underneath the wooden frame however looked a bit more hopeful, trails in accumulated dust suggesting something had been dragged out recently. Kneeling down to take photos as she went, the young spy rummaged her way back, eventually extracting a steel box, lid secured by a hefty padlock.

It was a solid sort of thing and, getting both under lights to better discern what she was up against, the girl lifted its heavy brass body. The lock itself was large, ornamented, and seemingly of Chinese manufacture, fit and finish such that shimming would not be an option. Under it, a non-standard keyway promised to make life more difficult than preferred also and, breaking picks out again, Monty once more inserted a hook to feel around inside.

_Well, at least it still felt pin-tumbler-like._

Finding somewhere for the tension wrench to get purchase, she set to work.

It certainly was not so simple a task as the door had been but, finally, she was rewarded with a satisfying click as the plug gave way, twisting to let the shackle spring apart. That process had cost her time however and, placing the lock to one side, she inspected the box's lid for telltales before lifting it open.

Inside lay a thick stack of documents bearing simplified_ jiǎnhuàzì_ script, the black Type 77 pistol set atop them forming a particularly deadly paperweight. Recording how things were arranged, Monty extracted the gun, setting it neatly to one side, along with boxes of spare ammunition, some bearing markings not in Chinese, but for Russian 9x18mm Makarov.

_So, they now knew John was going armed, and if _he_ was, then bets were probably safe his compatriots would be similarly equipped._

The wad of documents was also removed, revealing glossy photo prints beneath and, looking at what lay first in that collection, the young agent's expression turned grim. The face there carried less age, hair longer and without its trademark sideburns, but she would recognise those features anywhere, not just because she saw them every day, but because they had been burned into her memory since she first awakened. Picking up Jethro's picture, she inspected it closer: the image was clear, a front and side mug shot, text in the bottom corner censored out, not that the touch was doing much good. The only place a mug shot this old could have come from was the archives of Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service which, no matter how she looked at it, was very worrying indeed.

Setting that aside, the girl began to work through other images in the collection, arranging them so as to be easily returned in order. These were more recent, apparently taken at the shop Zhang brought them to on arrival, accompanied by photos of herself from the same visit, and the cyborg scowled. Obviously there would be no studio shots of _her_, but that she had not spotted a hidden photographer was also inestimably vexing, and she set about burning the angle each was taken at into her mind. If time allowed it would be nice to go back and figure out what vantage points had been used.

Finishing with that set, Monty's attention turned to the next shot in sequence... and paused, one eyebrow cocking slightly at what lay before her.

_Now that she had not expected._

It was another mug shot, similar to Jethro's, though slightly newer: a woman's face, strong Eurasian features covering cold blue eyes, long black hair pulled back into a low ponytail.

Putting that down for a moment, the girl worked quickly through remaining images, spreading them out to better present the whole picture, before sitting back on her haunches to inspect her handiwork.

_Mary Christmas... well now, didn't she just turn up in the most _interesting_ of places._

The remaining photos were again more recent, taken at the same shop, from the same vantage points, as those of her fratello, Mercedes limousine however replaced by a simple Hong Kong taxi. Seemingly Zhang was using that as his own private photo booth, and speaking of...

Placing the female agent's mug shot beside her handler's, Monty got a picture of both for later comparison, before putting it back in sequence. Starting from Mary's end, she began to work her way along the line, recording each frame as she went. Those were going to make for particularly interesting study. For starters, if the other spy were in town now, then Algy had either been telling fibs about the SIS's lack of people on the ground, or had not been made aware in the first place.

_And it would certainly be nice to finally get off the back foot and start drawing some hard conclusions insofar as the woman was concerned... hopefully._

In the apartment's low light however her phone camera was not fast and, moving to capture the next image, the mobile suddenly buzzed, causing her to freeze. The number she didn't recognise, but that was to be expected, her partner's calls would be going out under the identity of some other device nearby, but the message was simple and clear: '12'.

Twelve minutes. That was how long since Jethro and his tail had apparently parted company. _Twelve_... more than enough time to get from Wan Chai's entertainment district to here. That had been supposed to come earlier, immediately if possible, what on earth had taken him so long to contact her?

She wasn't anywhere near done, but no time to loose and no time to worry now. Stepping back, she grabbed the last two shots in Mary's set together, before quickly re-packing the box as it had been found. Locked up once more, she left it long enough to stand and kill apartment lights, opening curtains again to instead let dim illumination from beyond spill in.

It took another moment for eyes to adjust back to the gloom, enough at least to start re-arranging equipment under the bed, but she had no idea how close John would be and, for all she knew, that could be very close indeed.

Putting a last cardboard box away, hiding the document stash completely, she checked her work quickly against the phone picture as, from outside, came the sound of footsteps in the passage.

_Not using the door then..._ _Plan B._

Moving quickly to the window, Monty lifted its heavy swing-catch, before opening ancient glazing wide. Dangling legs out, a probing toe found one of the pipe clusters Dynabolted to concrete beneath and, testing briefly to ensure it would take her weight, she slipped outside.

Take her weight it might, but round piping made for a precarious perch at best and, sill grasped with one hand, she used the other to push the window shut, a slender finger slipped inside to hold its fastener clear until the last second as the frame closed into position. Behind dirty glass the catch handle dropped slightly, then stopped, tongue not fully seated home as, from the hallway, came a jingle of keys.

_That had to be John returning._

Grip tightening further on her slim hold, Monty pressed her other palm once more against the window frame, shaking it, trying to dislodge the fouled mechanism. She didn't want to make too much noise but...

From the apartment came the click of a lock, and the young agent ducked out of sight, hand wedging awkwardly under the window ledge to jam her in place as the door opened inside.

A pause, then rapid glow of lights coming on as it was closed again, footsteps advancing across hard flooring, and the spy tried not the breath as a shadow cast itself upon the alley wall opposite. She could feel fingers starting to slip, but her perch was less than secure and, if she added any extra pressure, she risked tearing it from crumbling concrete.

She would have to make sure if she fell to do so away from the window, sort out what she landed on later.

Another heartbeat, John's shape opposite leaning down to inspect the unsecured frame.

Of course, if he opened it, she may have to fall anyway.

From above came a rattle as it was shoved harder into place, followed by the scrape of a catch being torqued home, and the shadow disappeared, soon followed by tones of a wardrobe opening. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Monty released her handhold, pitching forward to throw herself across the laneway below. Slots in the market wall across gave purchase enough to reach its roof, rolling across the parapet to land once more on silent feet, disappearing into the night.

* * *

Pleasant dining the Compass Room may have served for, but the RHKYC Bistro below touted its own more relaxed atmosphere, wide, umbrella-covered tables catching a cooling breeze as it wafted up Victoria Harbour: perfect conditions for a late breakfast.

Taking another bite of bacon and eggs, Monty placed cutlery gently down, before leaning back in her seat, luxuriating in its gentle touch licking through an open fronted blouse, ruffling light fabric, as a hand rested itself atop hers.

"I'm still glad you got away... mostly... clean."

Feeling its caress, the girl looked over to where her handler leaned in beside her, own chair shuffled close to share views of water before them, and her features formed a scowl.

"That may be pushing the definition."

"Don't forget we're not the only spook-game in town."

"But we _are_ the ones they've been interacting with. For now, I think we should be on our best behaviour and not rock the boat..." the expression became even less happy, "...which means _you'll_ need to make a few more solo visits to Wan Chai."

"Sorry. John's timing was... inopportune." Now a more cheeky expression crossed her partner's face. "If it's any consolation, I think sharing a bed with you after was punishment enough."

That earned him another unimpressed look. As far as those listening in on their hotel room were concerned, Monty had been safely asleep all night, computer covering for the sounds of a slumbering girl. Unfortunately, on her return, that cover had also precluded her from a shower until morning.

Reading the expression, Jethro gave another brief grin, before taking on a more sober countenance. "Still, near miss or no, I think what's fallen out of that particular excursion is very much worth knowing. You said the documents John had were in simplified Chinese?"

"That is what it looked like, but I never got past the first page and, honestly, I would need to check against some examples to be sure."

"Do so if you can..." half a beat as he changed tack, "...and then there's Mary."

"Yes, and then there's _Mary_."

"Could be a coincidence, for all we know she's on entirely unrelated business."

"And Zhang just happens to be following her as well?" Monty's face made her opinion on that particular suggestion clear. "Monaco, Alex, Switzerland, and now here... I think we're well past the stage of '_coincidence'_."

Another small smile. "Glad we're in agreement then."

"What I'm not greatly liking though is how, seemingly, whomsoever leaked her presence to Zhang is presumably the same kind soul as leaked _ours_, and that leak seems to have come right out of the SIS."

"Those mug shots could have come from a low-level operative embedded anywhere."

"And they could not have."

There was a pause, Jethro's finger tapping against a wooden arm-rest, before he leaned forward to take another bite of eggs Benedict, chewing thoughtfully. The accompanying expression however suggested his mind had been running down similar lines to hers.

Coming back to the present, her partner continued, through practice or habit taking the opposing position. "We've only really encountered Mary in and around Europe though. Unless she was transferred, she should not have much business in the Far East."

"And if she were pursuing an investigation here? Would the Far East Station be notified?"

"That would be the polite thing to do, yes. The SIS has not always been so polite internally though." Now he paused again, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Their source aside, I would quite like to know how long Zhang has been holding those photographs. The mug shots are old, but if we can get some idea when Mary had her picture taken locally..."

"...we might be able to get some idea as to when, or whether, she is still here or not."

"Precisely."

Turning a small smile on her handler, Monty raised eyebrows slightly. "Well, I _was_ going to suggest starting to look into Anagnos's freight forwarding out of Hong Kong but..."

"Until Tiger gets back to us I think we're better holding fire on that one, let him handle the legwork out of sight. However, it might just be time to go see if Zhang is still doing a sideline in white goods."


	6. CH05 Be A Star

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

_Fausto Martinello belongs to Officer_Charon._

* * *

**Chapter 05|Be A Star**

Heat and thick humidity, oppressive harbingers of an oncoming storm.

Ushering Monty before him, Jethro slipped between two haggling shoppers, letting a grin pass fleetingly across his face.

"And just what are you so happy about?"

Leaning down to bring lips closer his girl's ear, he let the grin reappear, slouching along for a moment beside her. "Not much, just contemplating how difficult this crowd must me making a particular someone's life."

"No sympathy."

The tone was dry and, giving her a peck on the cheek for good measure, the handler stood back up, breathing deep as he sunk once more into the sights and sounds of Mong Kok. He liked it here on the Kowloon side, somehow more real and visceral than the island's restricted, slightly sterile, streets. If Wan Chai were bustling and over-run by signs, then Mong Kok was it tenfold, footpath life spilling onto busy tarmac even now under the afternoon's muggy, repressive, torpidity and, glancing in the rear window of a passing van, he scanned faces behind. Of course, the massed populace worked both ways, and it took another attempt before he picked their tail out of the crowd, John's features bobbing through seething bodies astern.

A wry chuckle split his lips at that: these days, each tail was perhaps more familiar than his ostensible work colleagues in Rome. They were getting bolder to, this one had accompanied them for most of the day, traipsing Kowloon streets, which was good: a little boldness mixed with a day's fatigue would make his next move slightly less risky.

_Moscow Rules: lull them into a sense of complacency._

That being said of course, being issued John was not completely ideal. Monty's house call may have been days previous, and Zhang may have also taken their seeming obliviousness as an opportunity to better rest his operatives, but if any of those latter were going to be suffering a bout of paranoia, it was probably John.

Not that their failing to lose him would be the end of the world, this time around - point of fact, letting on they were _trying _to lose him may almost be worse – but trading away any more of that carefully cultivated complacency than necessary would be daft when it could be better spent at some later date.

For all he knew there could be a second tail out there as well, it certainly would not be the _first_ time. No, if he was going to be suspected of something, let him still be suspected of being complacent himself, rather than looking too carefully over his shoulder.

That didn't mean getting some breathing space would not be worth an attempt however.

Meandering along a few more paces, the spy spotted his opportunity and, using another milling group, stopped in the middle of the footpath, to force him closer a shopping arcade frontage, he leant down again, head ducking below the height of those around.

"Alright luv, in here."

Accompanying the words with a gentle nudge in the small of her back, he directed his charge inside, standing once more as they disappeared behind solid walls. John had not been far off however, giving them maybe ten seconds to find somewhere to go and, as the taller fratello member, finding that somewhere would likely fall to...

The thought never finished as he felt Monty extricate herself from his grasp, slender fingers instead wrapping around his, pulling him toward a tight shop entrance. "Come take a look at these."

Letting her haul him behind a wall of handbags, Jethro leaned down once more, ducking out of sight as she glanced up to peruse the offerings, eyes however peering through gaps in their cover to the arcade floor beyond.

"I didn't think these would be up your alley."

"They're not..." taking one down, she opened it to evaluate inside, before turning it out to show a run of stitching, "...and even if they were I wouldn't be tempted, this is not well put together."

"So 'no' then?"

"No."

"My wallet lives to fight another day."

That earned him an unimpressed expression, but no words further of the subject. Instead, hanging the bag back in place, his girl eyed the rack up and down again. "Besides, this is all just so... plain, and not in a good way either: the designs are dull and they've just enough shiny metal on to make middle-class suburbia think it's glamorous, without seeming threatening... he's gone past."

Waving at the rack dismissively, his girl headed back for the door, lifting a bag nearer the storefront on her way then letting it drop with an unimpressed expression as Jethro stepped quickly behind, using the pause generated to ensure John was faced away. Letting his hand drift down to the small of her back once more, he ushered her out into the maelstrom of bodies... things to do and, best guess, they had ten, maybe fifteen minutes before the Chinese would return to their pursuit.

If nothing else, how quickly they were reacquired would serve as measure of how keenly their watchers were following.

It was only a short walk to Zhang's white goods store and, rounding a corner into its slightly quieter back alley, the handler slowed, glancing in the mirror of a gradually rusting truck, scanning faces behind.

_So far, still clean._

That he could live with, and his attention instead turned to the street ahead, spider web wires still forming their constraining net between him and a darkening sky above, harsh shouts bouncing along crumbling concrete walls. In their shadow a familiar, random, selection of appliances dribbled out across cracked pavements and, gaze running over it as they approached, Jethro's eyes narrowed. Something was different, missing from the scene. The white goods were there, and the beckoning cat... but no door guard. The wizened man who had greeted their and, from John's pictures, Mary's arrival also, was not in evidence, and he leant down to Monty.

She, however, beat him to the punch. "I see it."

Giving her shoulder a squeeze the handler stood once more, leisurely saunter continuing around parked trucks as looming clouds began to dispense their first fat droplets on the steaming city. Picking up the pace, Jethro pulled his girl in under the storefront just as that stuttering flurry gave way to a fully fledged downpour, thundering against asphalt and shattering into a fine, damp, mist.

Aside from the lack of guard, the store inside looked little different from what he remembered: dingy, lit by low-strung incandescent bulbs, a glow from its rear hanging above the rudimentary barrier of fridges and stacked dryers. Behind, a shadow was moving, making for the barricade's edge, and he felt Monty tense almost imperceptibly under his grasp.

Who rounded the corner however was not Zhang, but instead a small, balding man, looking at his visitors in surprise, and Jethro waved a hand.

"_Chéngmahn!_"

_Not many expats visiting here then... or he had not been expecting any of Zhang's previous guests to return._

_Or he was a good actor._

"_Fùnyìhng_. Welcome." Seeming to gather himself with that, the presumed proprietor threaded through stacked boxes to stand before the fratello. "What can I help?"

"Uhh... _ńgh ōn_." Letting the blank expression of someone thinking, and giving up, wash across his face, Jethro continued. "We were here two..._yee_... or three, uhh... _sarm_... I think, weeks ago and..."

"No." The word was adamant. "You maybe have wrong store. I not here at that time. On... holiday. No open."

_Well, that was interesting._

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Huh." Nudging his partner before himself, arms crossing over skinny shoulders, the spy let a wry grin spread across his face. "Well, we're on holiday too at the moment... you start to lose track after a week or so, don't you?"

Smile and the world smiles back, a saying which seemingly held true across most cultures, and once again Jethro found his expression reciprocated.

"Yes."

"How long were you closed for? I say two or three weeks ago, but it could have been longer."

Another shake of the head, this time accompanied by a less happy expression.

"No. I away for month, only re-open last week."

"Sounds like it was not a holiday."

"Nephew, wedding..." he rubbed a finger and thumb together, "...expensive, help pay bride-price, and no income."

Jethro gave his partner a squeeze. "Well, I don't know which end of that I'll be on just yet, if at all."

Now the shop keeper's eyes flicked down to Monty, then back to the man behind her. "Take advice: no have boy."

"At the moment I'm probably unlikely to have anything."

"No. Have child. Have girl. No carry on name, but no cost on marry."

"You hear that luv?"

The reply from lower down was dry. "Yes, and for your sake I'm going to _pretend_ I didn't."

Giving his partner another squeeze, Jethro returned the wry grin to the shop owner. "What do you do huh?"

The other man shrugged, wearing a similar expression, before gesturing around his shop. "That I no able help with. Help here though. What you want other store for?"

Pausing long enough to give the impression of changing tack, the handler followed that gesture. "That? We were considering buying an apartment here and were weighing costs. The other shop was giving us a quote for appliances."

"I help with that. What you need?"

Now Monty glanced upward. "A second quote certainly wouldn't hurt."

"Look, just the basics for now: fridge, washing machine, dryer, microwave... television if you have it... mid-range to good brands."

"I make list. You wait."

"That would be fantastic, _m̀hgòi_."

While the owner bustled back toward the store's rear, Jethro released his charge, ushering her nearer pouring rain as it drummed against pavement, white noise enveloping any sound uttered at its edges, and he held out a hand to let droplets batter across his palm.

"I don't think this will last too long, the heavy bit at least." Settling to lean back against a handy washing machine, he gave his partner a querying look. "So I suspect it's probably not worth seeing if he recognises Mary."

The return was quiet and dry. "I suspect not. Even if he's actually a housekeeper or similar, there's no certainty he would know what his property was used for, and I doubt he would fess up if he did."

"Highly improbable, true. We did get one thing out of this though: we now have a rough idea of the window in which Mary visited... those were not the tones of a man who holidays regularly."

"If she visited in that period, there's a fair chance she's still here too... unless of course she was being thrown out, or he_ is_ a housekeeper and spinning some untruth: which would explain how the Orchid moved in without anyone asking questions."

"I suspect Zhang could come up with a suitable cover story if need be..." tapping a finger against white painted steel, Jethro looked down toward his boots, noting the speckled pattern where water had splashed onto suede uppers from now easing rain, "...and I don't think he's a housekeeper."

"What makes you so sure?"

Another pause.

"I don't know just... something."

That earned him a cocked eyebrow. "And you've plenty of recent experience reading people on this side of the planet have you?"

Not replying, the handler instead flashed another grin, before drawing her into his side as the subject of conversation reappeared, a sheet of lined paper in hand.

"Here, I give quote."

Taking the proffered document, he held it low enough that Monty also could read carefully, albeit still jagged, English lettering, followed by much neater Chinese script.

"I try use good brand."

"Thank you for that, we will take it onboard."

Shaking hands, Jethro waited for his partner to complete the same ritual, before edging into drizzle now descending outside as the storm moved on, slipping the paper into a pocket as he went. While the downpour may have abated its lingering dregs still fed downpipes and gutters, keeping them flush with raging torrents and, stepping over that temporary obstacle into the road to walk side by side, he leant down to talk.

"Did you get a good look around?"

The reply was quick coming. "Yes. I suspect those photos were not taken from any of the nearer buildings, though whether as a result of not wanting to be seen, or lack of access, who knows. That said, the photographer would have needed a fairly substantial camera setup to pick us from any reasonable farther vantage point."

Pavements were beginning to fill again in the storm's wake, crowds splitting and reforming as schools of fish to avoid dribbling water from the forest of signs above, running in rivulets across slick footpaths and asphalt. Falling into that throng, the pair began to thread once more through Mong Kok back streets, headed slowly south, pausing to inspect a shop here or interesting window there, before finally turning onto the wider expanse of Nathan Road, joining its arrow straight course toward Victoria Harbour.

Matching his pace to the flow of foot traffic, Jethro felt a slight touch on his hand and, looking down, he saw Monty gesture subtly to the reflective side of a bus stop, still peppered with sparkling droplets. Following, he found the outline of familiar features trailing behind once more.

"Well they wouldn't have wanted to take too long about it, we're about the only gweilos in sight."

"Just the one tail."

"That I can see at least..." he paused in consideration, "...being said, that it _has_ taken this long for them to reacquire us suggests there_ probably_ is not a second tail."

"_Probably_ not, no."

Leaning down again, Jethro waited for his partner to continue. The constant ducking below head height must have had their follower verging on an aneurysm, which he, personally, would be fine with.

Monty, however, was talking again. "The other thing going for that theory is Zhang seemingly chasing both us and Mary. Presuming she's still here, he will need to be spreading resources quite thin."

"Unless he's kept more in reserve than we've presently seen."

"Which would not, however, fit with the operational picture we've been drawn of his controllers... though that information could of course be deficit." She paused again. "I would perhaps be more curious to know what his interest in her is... and just what it means for his interest and knowledge of _us_."

_Now that was a disquieting thought._

Stepping closer the kerb to avoid bamboo scaffold, supporting another sign being erected into the multitude above, the handler brought his charge around to travel in file, leaning down again to continue their conversation.

"I can think of a few commonalities, for me at least, between us and Mary which may spark some interest, but..."

"...but there's really only one obvious choice."

Reaching the scaffold end, Jethro pulled back in beside her, checking as he did their tail's location, before speaking again. "There is, and it's amazing how oft the most obvious and inconvenient choice is also want to be the correct one. Could you imagine what the Chinese would do being able to print US money for themselves?"

"I imagine they would not precisely be making pocket change." Another few steps passed, Monty's eyes constantly scanning the surrounding area, before their gaze swung back toward him. "What I am finding particularly disquieting though is, should that indeed be the common interest he's tracing, then he would _have_ to know we're here on business, no matter how earnestly we pretend otherwise. Without that assumption, without knowing what was here and who was in pursuit, there's no real link to make tracking both parties worthwhile."

Another pause, then the handler gave his partner's shoulder a squeeze. "Be that as it may, we've yet to give any specific proof of being less than what we say we are."

"That we know of."

"That we know of. However, no matter how certain he is, he still has to be guessing to some extent, so for now I suggest we carry on as is."

"We're hobbling ourselves too remember."

"I think we're still just as badly constrained by lack of information until Tiger or Rome get back to us anyway and, so long as we're careful, what we_ can_ chase independently is relatively easily pursued in plain sight. Once they do though..."

"Keep in mind we don't have forever to spend here."

Another squeeze. "I know."

"How potentially exposed we are also depends on how Zhang got the information in the first place."

He took a moment to process that.

"Insinuating?"

"That if whosoever leaked details of our trip also handed on the 'why', he would have known our intentions from the off."

"It's one possibility, but then why haul us in? To scare us away and eliminate one fragment of the searching competition?"

"Or possibly the press is already in Chinese hands which, to play Devil's Advocate, is a perfectly acceptable outcome for _us,_ in the short term at least."

"So long as they're not in cahoots with any of the competition." Jethro tapped a finger against his girl's shoulder, thinking. "I don't believe so though, if he didn't want us here, snooping around, he could more simply have just denied us entry."

"Not without leaving a trail."

"I'm sure that is less of a concern for him than it is for us on this particular turf."

"Presuming his government and superiors know what game he's playing." That comment came across darkly, and she let it hang briefly, before shrugging. "For all we know he could simply have wished an opportunity to evaluate us face to face too."

"Which returns us to the original 'how' of discovering what we are here in pursuit of."

Ahead, their current route terminated, opening onto wide, public, harbour-front spaces, a far cry from frenetic and claustrophobic streets left behind. Turning west along the shore's paralleling street, the pair headed toward a vintage clock tower, jutting skyward as a marker for the cross-harbour ferry terminal, juxtaposed beside modern, swooping shapes of the Hong Kong Space Museum.

"If we discount any mole activity for a moment, well, it's not difficult to get a boat crew drunk..." Jethro shot his partner a sly grin, "...and even if the press were brought ashore quickly they may still have some idea what was being handed on from their care."

"But if _Anagnos Dragon_ has been specifically dealing with the Padania's dirty work, you'd suspect her crew to not be so easily turned."

"Maybe so, but a night out is a night out, and a pretty girl is a pretty girl, especially if the only motivator to stay quiet is money."

That earned him an unimpressed look, and he pulled Monty in tighter.

Seemingly satiated by that, she sighed. "Perhaps they managed to trace us back to Alexandria, or Monaco?"

"I doubt it. The Chinese prefer mosaics: long, singularly in depth investigations are not their style."

"Neither, apparently, is splitting out individual cells from a central control, and _that's _happening."

"Touché."

"Which gives us the time between the press hitting port, and its leaving the docks, as the most likely point for Zhang's becoming aware of it, and I don't doubt the Orchid has at least a few watchers buried amongst the stevedores."

"Them, and everyone else."

Another pause, but this time his partner's expression was pensive.

"Hold that thought." Taking a breath, she appeared to change tack, though the expression remained. "Of course, the Circus's hacking team may also have left a trail... presuming they even existed in first place."

Now Jethro did look down at his partner, cocking a querying brow. That however elicited no response and, turning eyes back forward, he dropped the subject as they arrived under the Star Ferry, Tsim Sha Tsui terminal, clock tower.

Merging into a crowd flowing toward the pier's Central-bound berth, buying pass tokens as they went, the pair headed for the company's cheaper, less tourist-friendly, lower-deck. Pushing through its turnstile into dimly lit corridors, Jethro ushered his girl forward, pulling up at the back of a group waiting patiently by low gates, surrounding walls painted in chipped green and white, mirroring the double-prowed vessels plying waves beyond. The air was warm down here, tinged with scents of salt, fuel, and mildew, and it was with a certain degree of relief that the throb of a marine diesel and bump of their transport against the pier were greeted.

At this time of day, the bulk of commuters were headed away from Hong Kong Island, but eventually a blue-uniformed guard pulled the gates back, directing new passengers down the wide gangway and between barnacle encrusted piles to the waiting ferry's second class deck. Boarding via the boat's own lowered ramp, the former British agent moved his partner to a place by its prow as she took position farthest from the crowd. That was unusual and, following the cue, he turned to stand over her, looking out across the harbour and blocking any sightline from behind as she produced her phone.

From amidships came the rattle of block and tackle as the vessel's ramps were manually hauled up, a low-frequency pulse overlaying the shouts of sailor-suited deck hands as they cast off, taking heavy lines from their opposites on the pier.

Not wanting to appear too interested as his girl flicked through photos, Jethro settled in to watch passing harbour life, one arm leaned against steel railing, the other draped around her side, letting fingers brush lightly up and down her belly's firm curve as the boat throbbed its way toward Central on the far shore.

Skirting behind a cruise liner being guided into its berth by fussing tugs, the ancient ferry continued to thread between bay traffic, hydrofoil water taxis and red-rigged junks carrying their human cargo through throngs of more utilitarian craft. Amongst them, the first gin-palace cruisers made their way out with revellers for the evening and, watching another white hull turn slightly to pass astern, he found slender fingers intertwining with the languidly brushing hand, drawing his attention. Leaning down slightly, the handler felt them release once more as Monty started to talk, chatter of voices and rumbling engine masking her quiet words.

"You know, I think Mary has been here for awhile."

Halting, she lifted her phone up slightly so he could see the screen. On it was displayed one of Algy's photographs, zoomed in on the blurred identification code of one container. Not waiting for him to reply, the girl continued.

"I said before Zhang's people would have needed a not insubstantial camera setup to get the photos they did in Mong Kok, well it's highly doubtful these came off CCTV stills either. Someone has done a careful job of roughening them up, but no-one has been pulling ISO codes off this rubbish."

"Zoom and enhance?"

That earned him an unimpressed look.

"You know as well as I that's a crutch dreamed up by Hollywood." She paused. "Feasibly there could have been another camera closer to the truck, but I doubt it. The most likely place to find that would be the gates, but the wharves are run by separate companies..."

"...which would mean a separate camera system, and separate server, for the shared infrastructure."

"Exactly."

The pause was filled once more by surrounding noise, and Jethro mulled those words over, free hand moving up to hold his partner tighter, thumb now absently massaging at flesh between her collar bone and shoulder. It was certainly a compelling theory, and he could see where it was going, however...

_Time to play Devil's Advocate again._

"Anyone could have acquired those shots though. None of that proves Mary was the image source."

"No, it doesn't, but it's not just anyone we've been running into over and over again following the same trail, and it's not just anyone Zhang has been taking a parallel interest in either."

"Could have been the photos brought her here though." The massaging stopped. "Okay, so let's work on the assumption these are, in fact, Mary's doing, where does that leave us?"

Turning the phone off, Monty slipped it away in a pocket, hand moving instead to lay atop his.

"Well, if we believe Algy's timeframe, and who knows what lines he's been feeding us, she would have been here at least two months. Even if the deed was not directly hers, but it drew her here instead, there has still been at least a month by the store owner's reckoning for her to work."

"Question is, where does her arrival actually fall in with all that? If her travelling east happened substantially prior to being contacted by Zhang, it might point to his having undertaken independent investigations, rather than being tipped off by some third party."

"Which would explain any time deficit on her side, but not how he was then so quickly on to _us_."

"A month is plenty of time to put feelers out. Don't forget, this is _his_ backyard we're playing in."

"Intercepting us would have required knowing our cover, which was a very last-minute and tightly controlled arrangement..." the girl turned her head slightly to cock a wry eyebrow at him, "...and best I can tell, _Vauxhall_ is somewhat better informed than Rome regards our present whereabouts. Feasibly he could have activated a sleeper here _after_ finding Mary..."

"...but I doubt he has the rank yet to make that call direct or, as one of the new boys, the local clout to do so without expending time on going up through official channels," finished the handler for her.

A nod.

"Which returns us to the possibility he was tipped off she was coming, and why, but still leaves a potential time gap to fill."

Now Monty shrugged. "Possibly he could not organise a meeting that quickly, or maybe he wanted to see what she would do."

"But not what _we _would do? I'm almost insulted."

"We already suspect his resources are stretched thin. With two parties to follow he may not have had enough suitably skilled bodies to do any more than sit on us."

Letting her words hang, Jethro looked forward to where Star Ferry's well lit, more modern, Central facility was swimming into focus out of still drizzling rain.

A sigh.

"Which is all very useful information to have, but doesn't get us any closer to completing what we originally came here for..."

"...or even figuring out if Mary _is_ still present."

At that however, the former SIS man leaned forward, just far enough to give his partner a thin smile.

"Oh, I think she will be. Even if she finished up between our seeing Algy and arrival, the last thing her superiors want is someone else causing a ruckus in their wake."

"So then where to now?"

With a bump the ferry pulled up against its moorings, engine's throb slowing to be replaced by the crew's shouts again as they passed heavy lines up to those on the pier, loops being collected on long billhooks and hauled over stout bollards.

Glancing around, Jethro waited for the seats nearby to empty before he replied. "For now, I think we might go with your earlier suggestion: find out who handles Hermes' traffic through Hong Kong, and see if they've had any interesting visitors recently."

Looking down the boat, Monty nodded to where their tail was just getting up from his seat, dawdling as he went.

"And _that_? Visiting a freight office is not exactly something to do on holidays."

"That? If they really are spread thin, we may just be able to start playing dirty a little earlier."

* * *

Cited on Italy's far northwest Adriatic coast, the port city of Trieste caught its fair share of summer's wrath, sun beating down on idyllic, carefully maintained, classical architecture from clear blue skies.

It was certainly no place to find oneself cooped up in a stationary vehicle with three other bodies.

Despite its occupants' best efforts, Hilshire's car remained sweltering, afternoon heat penetrating deep into this narrow side street, melting inexorably into the big Mercedes' dark paintwork, lowered windows doing little to help in still, dead, air. Stripped of her trademark trench coat, reduced to simple blouse and skirt, Triela picked up a piece of paper, fanning herself with it. Sharing the rear bench, Odile was probably faring slightly better though, by the look of it, not by much, the sound of skin unpeeling from sweaty leather accompanying every movement. Even their handlers had been reduced to rolled shirt sleeves, jackets and shoulder holsters swapped for something lighter and less constricting in the torrid atmosphere.

Two fratelli, that was more than the SWA seemed prepared to spare for most things these days, at least until they figured out whose identities had been compromised. The senior cyborg allowed herself a wry chuckle at that: once upon a time no-one would have batted an eyelid at two fratelli deploying together... not that there was anywhere to hide another pair on this narrow street, no matter how carefully selected.

So they sat, and sweltered.

From the seat's far end, Odile's eyes swung toward her.

"Triela, what are you laughing at?"

The younger blonde shook her head. "Nothing. Just remembering a less complicated life... not that I realised it at the time."

"Are you sure this was the place?"

Ceasing their conversation, Triela's gaze swung toward where Mr. Vitale was sitting in the front passenger seat, staring down the road, hands cradling a heavy DSLR camera and telephoto lens in his lap. It was Hilshire, however, who replied.

"This is where we tracked Vito's bike to... or, at least, one of those places he has been visiting most regularly."

The younger man's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "Yes, so you said. I would quite like to know how you suddenly started making progress down that track."

No response.

Scowling, he turned his attention elsewhere. "What can you see, Odile?"

The elder girl fidgeted, leaning over to peer past her handler's shoulder.

"Umm, see what, Florentino?"

"Pick something, tell me what _you_ think looks important."

"Umm."

A sigh. "Try describing the target building to me."

"Umm, well... it's the offices of a small financial firm, four storeys tall, stone facing... it has an Italian flag out the front."

"And why do you think a probable Northern Separatist organisation is flying _il Tricolore_?"

Another pause while the girl thought.

"I would say it's camouflage," only once the words were out of her mouth did Triela realise she had possibly just put her foot in it, but she was started now, "they probably want to appear patriotic."

Looking around, Mr. Vitale's expression was sour, but he nodded. "Yes, that is a reasonable assumption... perhaps not particularly _good_ camouflage since the only other establishments flying flags are the hotels, but camouflage none the less." Now his gaze swung back to Odile. "What about the surrounding buildings, have you been keeping an eye on those?"

"Yes, Florentino."

"And?"

Glancing sideways, Triela could see her fellow cyborg's eyes flicker across the street outside again, though whether to remind herself what was there, or to cover a mistake, she could not tell.

"Umm... most of the buildings seem pretty empty, I think this area is residential... there is a couple walking away," she squinted, "and someone in the window across from our target building... I think they're reading... and..."

"That's enough, I don't need to hear every last detail. Use your head, tell me: does anything look suspicious to _you_?"

"Umm."

"The couple?"

"They're walking away from us, and they have a stroller."

"The person in the window?"

"He's just reading, and two doors down there is someone watering a window box."

"So make a note of each, no matter how innocent they may seem, commit them to memory, and watch for them again."

Lifting his camera anyway, the younger handler aimed it along the street, presumably at his cyborg's window sitter. Triela's attention however had already snapped elsewhere.

"Mr. Vitale? At the target's door."

Getting only a grunt in reply, she watched as he brought the lens down to line up with two figures, standing about fifteen metres away on the building's low front steps. Neither she recognised, but they paused for a moment, apparently finishing a discussion, before descending to get into the back of a large saloon car parked kerbside.

Ensuring he caught the car's number plate as it turned away, Mr. Vitale lowered his DSLR back below the window line.

"I'll send those on to Priscilla tonight and see if she can match them up to anyone." Getting a nod of agreement from Hilshire, he twisted around again to the two cyborgs in the rear seat. "_That_, Odile, is the sort of thing you need to be looking for. I hope you're learning from this, you can't wait for me to prompt you every time."

"Yes, Florentino."

The words were mumbled, and Triela lowered her own voice, far enough that neither handler would hear.

"Don't worry, it's just like shoot house, you'll learn with time."

"Mmm..."

Silence descended again, and she turned her attention back to the street, watching its comings and goings as shadows continued to lengthen, sweeping across the tarmac. There had been other days like this: Naples, Montalcino... the sniper hunt in Rome, and many more beyond that. So peaceful on the surface, but tumultuous beneath, no sign of the war being fought in Italy's dark places, a war no-one saw until it spilled from beyond the curtain.

Somewhere in the city, the sound of an engine, drawing nearer, overlayed by the closer tapping of Mr. Vitale's fingernail atop his camera. Across the way, a door creaked open, letting a small group wearing football jerseys and carrying kit bags out, turning up the street toward them; probably headed to training.

The tapping stopped.

"That reader has been sat in their window all afternoon... it's an awfully long time to stay at the same book."

"He was there yesterday too."

The handler's head snapped around at Odile's words, apparently to blast a rebuke, but he clamped his jaw shut, instead turning to Hilshire in the driver's seat, expression hardening into concern.

"Two can still be a coincidence, but I suddenly don't like this Victor. It might be time to move on."

That engine was closer now.

Hesitating a moment, Hilshire nodded, reaching back for a seatbelt as Mr. Vitale turned to face the two cyborgs.

"Odile, why didn't you..." his eyes went wide, "...brace!"

With a sudden crescendo roar and shattering crash the world heaved, hurling Triela forward as white curtains exploded into existence around her, only to be torn apart as gunfire raked the car, sending her ducking for cover. Whoever was shooting had not brought children's toys either and, as their volley finally petered out, the cyborg lifted her head, SIG pistol already in hand. Their car's front had been thoroughly smashed into the bodywork of that ahead, while behind could be seen the culprit through tinkling shards of falling glass: the bluff front of a Mitsubishi four wheel drive, steam rising from its radiator, pinning them in place. Already its doors were open, disgorging armed fighters onto the pavement, unmistakable silhouettes of Bizon submachine guns in their hands. Shredded window airbags revealed the 'footballers' also, five of them, similarly equipped and advancing across the street.

A shout went up, she had been spotted.

Closest threats first.

Turning, she raised her pistol, drawing a bead on the Mitsubishi's driver, loosing two shots as her target dove for cover, half-loaded magazine clattering to the ground as he crumpled unmoving after it. Two more reports from behind let her know Odile was still in the fight as well, catching another enemy, but the man's compatriots were following suit now, scrambling to put something solid between themselves and the defending cyborgs.

The respite wouldn't last for long, probably until someone managed to reload, and they weren't going to match another salvo like that with pistols.

"Odile, cover me."

"Yes, Triela."

Diving over the seat back, the younger girl grabbed the nearest case she could find, wrenching it into the footwell as automatic fire raked the car again, and she stifled a grunt, heat blooming in her arm. Odile was quick to respond however and, letting her deal with the threats for a moment, she tore the case open, pulling out an MP9 submachine gun. Slamming a thirty round magazine into place she wrenched the charging handle back, before passing it upward to its owner, two fifteen shot mags following in its wake.

"It's loaded."

Feeling the plastic weight lifted away, she popped up for another look through torn and dangling airbags. Odile had apparently killed another at the four wheel drive, but the five across the street had dug in. That was going to be a problem.

Either way, they couldn't stay here.

A moan from the front seat snapped her attention that way. Hilshire was already hunkered down below window height as best he could manage, pistol in hand, but Mr. Vitale looked in much worse shape, blood already beginning to soak through the shoulder of his shirt in at least two places.

"Odile, get around the rear and keep their attention."

Two more shots sent the final man behind ducking away again and, from the corner of her eye she saw the older cyborg try her door handle, then swing around, bracing against the seats to kick at it once, twice, three times.

The door slammed open with a bang of failing metal, bouncing back against its hinges, and she rolled out after it. Space cleared behind, Triela scrambled back also, slithering onto the pavement as another volley rocked the Mercedes from across the street.

From this low position she could just see the last of their closer assailants. Smart, he had put the 4x4's wheel between himself and the fratelli, but that was Odile's problem.

Hopefully she could handle it.

Shoving the door's deformed slab back into place the senior cyborg crawled forward, grabbing at the front passenger handle to pull hard, as her less experienced sibling sent another burst across narrow tarmac.

Nothing, also stuck. Not what she needed: it would only be a matter of time before those over the street decided to rush them.

Popping up to send two more shots their direction by way of dissuasion, the girl holstered her SIG before getting one hand on the door release, fingers of the other snaking in behind its panel line and, bracing feet against the car, she pulled hard.

Its catch gave way with a jolt, sending her tumbling backwards, just in time to clear Mr. Vitale falling out behind, a grunt of pain issuing forth as he hit the ground.

"Florentino!"

"Eyes forward Odile! Give Victor some cover!"

Taking up position at the bonnet, Triela emptied the remainder of her magazine toward the footballers, replacing it with her spare as Hilshire scrambled clear as well, blood dribbling from a cut across his cheek as he wedged the door in place again.

"We can't stay here."

That was Mr. Vitale, gun drawn in his off-hand.

"No, we can't." Now her handler looked at her. "Triela, I need you to secure the doorway of the target building. If we get there, we will at least put the enemy all on one side. Do you have your Winchester?"

"It's still in the boot."

"Get ready to retrieve it. Odile, Florentino, we need to give her some cover."

Trading places with him at bonnet, Triela crawled back until she was level with the car's rear wheel.

"On three. One. Two. Three!"

With that her companions popped out, loosing a hail of bullets across the road and back toward the written off Mitsubishi, and she leapt up, reaching in through their estate's shattered window to tug her shotgun case clear, drawing it down as she ducked from the path of withering return fire.

Stock still welded to her shoulder, Odile's spent magazine clattered to the pavement, bouncing across concrete as the senior girl tore her bag open, extracting the trench gun inside, magazine tube already full. Pumping one of the shells out, she replaced it with a slug, cycling the action again to charge the weapon.

"I'll let you know when it's clear."

That got a nod and, leaping up once more she swung the Winchester around, stroking the trigger to send it slamming into her shoulder, slug sailing across the street to crash through the windows of their enemy's cover, and she was rewarded with a scream of pain. No time to celebrate however and, chambering a new shell she was up and running, charging toward their target's doorway.

Fifteen metres.

Ten.

Incoming fire kicked up shards of concrete from the pavement around her.

Five.

Shadows appeared ahead, stepping out, weapons levelling and the shotgun boomed. One went down and she ducked under the second's muzzle, gun's rising butt meeting his nose hard enough to drive it back and up into the brain. Not stopping she continued up the short set of stairs, pumping in another round to crash through heavy wooden doors and sweep the lobby area beyond, her Winchester making its report again to drop the last visible human form, landing face down on carefully polished marble.

Empty.

Replenishing the expended shells, she chambered another slug, before stepping outside to shout down the street.

"Clear!"

The reply was indistinct but, holding the next slug in her mouth, she aimed up across narrow tarmac. By the Mercedes she saw Hilshire haul Mr. Vitale to his feet, half carrying him her way as Odile brought up the rear.

It didn't take long for their attackers to cotton on and, as the farther group popped out from cover again, both cyborgs sent fire streaking their direction. Suddenly though, the puncture noise of submachine gun fire was interrupted by the sharp crack of a rifle, and blood spurted from Florentino's hip, accompanied by a shout of pain.

"Sniper!"

_Damn._

Ramming her second and final slug home, Triela scanned windows opposite, retreating into the doorway as those at ground level moved their offensive to her.

The reader's window was empty now, a shadowy form inside...

A flash of flame, followed by another cracking report, and the cyborg sent her shot sailing through open panes toward it, target inside crumpling.

Her companions had made it now, Hilshire bodily hauling Mr. Vitale up the stairs to set him down inside, back to solid stone, Odile still bringing up the rear, blood staining her abdomen as another spent magazine fell clear of the MP9's grip. Safely into the lobby however she dove for her handler.

"Florentino!"

The man let out another grunt of pain as she landed near him.

At the doorway however, Triela could see their assailants moving up, three from across the road joining their formerly isolated compatriot in the advance and, drawing her pistol she sent two rounds their direction.

"Mr. Hilshire?"

"I see them." Now his eyes flicked to the other cyborg. "Odile, I need you on the door."

"But."

Mr. Vitale coughed. "Do as he says, Odile."

"But."

"I'm fine, I don't think they hit anything vital... yet. Make sure they don't get another chance at it."

Hesitating half a second, the elder girl nodded, moving to take up position as instructed, sub-compact Beretta drawn... seemingly that was it for the machine pistol.

Hilshire was talking again. "Triela, we'll hold here. I want you to clear the building then try and put some fire down on top."

"Yes sir."

Racking her shotgun again, the cyborg set off, pausing at the base of wide stairs to relieve her most recent victim of his Bizon. It wasn't much, but it would be better ranged than anything else she had. Slinging it over a shoulder she moved on, Winchester leading once more.

First floor, clear.

Second floor, clear.

Third floor...

Reaching the stair's top, something moved in the corner of her eye, and Triela threw herself flat as rounds zinged off stone balustrade. This uppermost storey was different to the others: a narrow landing and single large room on one end, the latter apparently occupied. Popping up she returned fire, sending her enemy ducking for cover as she charged forward, another spread of shot keeping him pinned, empty shell skittering along at her feet as she dropped, sliding low through the doorway.

Good choice.

Fire raked past where her head would have been and she swung around to trace its source, answering report accompanied by a fine red mist.

What remained of her target collapsed to the floor, blood already pooling around it. Getting up, she swept the space, sudden silence interrupted only by the cracks and pops of the ongoing street battle below, backed by sirens in the distance.

A desk, computer... large meeting table down the far end.

Clear.

Pushing past that latter, the cyborg shoved open a front window. Placing her shotgun down, she unshouldered the Bizon submachine gun, checking it was loaded – a bit under half a magazine by the feel of things - and trained it outward, finding the four remaining Padans hunkered down a car or two from the building entrance.

They had not seen her.

Her first burst caught the closest one, dropping him, and the man beside rolled away, out of the line of fire, shouting a warning and spraying rounds back, forcing her to duck as shattering glass crashed down under the hail of returning bullets. Its fury was however short lived, joined by reports from directly under her feet and, as she popped up again, the enemy were retreating, one with a phone to his ear.

Her next burst caught his leg, causing him to stagger as, engine roaring, a white van careened into view, screeching to a halt in the street, side doors slamming open. Levelling her subgun she jammed down the trigger again, peppering its big shell with pockmarks, but then it was gone, taking the remaining Padans with it.

_Damn._

Someone had seen them and got away. That was going to cause problems further down the track.

Sighing, Triela dropped the expended magazine from her recently acquired weapon, its clatter breaking the sudden silence which came crashing in upon her. Moving quickly back toward the door she swapped it for the still part-full one from her most recent victim's firearm, before shouldering her shotgun again. Time to give the building a second clearing, but a quick one: she had to ensure Hilshire and the others were safe...

...Or at least, no worse off than they currently were.

That brought a grim expression, one which remained affixed as she double checked each level on her descent, and was made no better by the scene which greeted her in the lobby.

Someone on the Padania side had apparently scored a lucky hit, smashing its large overhead light fitting, leaving the space illuminated only by what sun remained out on the street. Beside the door, Hilshire had a phone to his ear, while Odile attended to, or at least fussed over, the wounded Mr. Vitale, seemingly oblivious to blood spread across her own stomach and blossoming from a shoulder.

Receiving a querying look from her handler, the senior cyborg gave a small nod, and he said something else down the mobile line, before dropping it and ending the call.

"Triela?"

"Three got away sir, but the building is clear."

A sigh. "Well that could have gone better, however we are at least still here and breathing. Ferro has a cleanup crew on their way by air, but they will take two hours minimum to arrive. Until then, I will distract the local law enforcement and find Florentino an ambulance."

"I'm going with him!"

The anguished shout came from Odile, still knelt on the ground, eyes wide.

Hilshire paused at that for a moment, but then his face hardened. "No, you're not. Once the cleanup crew gets here, someone can take you to the hospital as a relative, but for now you and Triela need to remain out of sight."

"But."

"No. You stay here Odile." The girl's eyes swung toward her own handler, lips opening, but Mr. Vitale cut across the top of her. "The worst thing that could happen right now would be for me to be wheeled out with a bloodied cyborg in tow."

"But, if I don't go, who's going to protect you?"

"Use your head: I'll be fine, at least for the next few hours, but right now it's far more important you protect my cover rather than my body. You heard, three got away, and they'll be searching for anything which looks even remotely like a fratello, so stay put."

The girl appeared like she wanted to say more but, whether by choice or conditioning, stepped on the words. "Yes, Florentino."

Sirens were closer now, first flashes of emergency vehicle lights beginning to paint the street fleeting blue, and Hilshire ran an eye over his small party again. "There's a first aid kit in the car, I'll get it once I stall the locals, unless you girls can find one closer to hand." Odile was already moving, but the senior handler continued, "Triela, stay here a moment."

Pausing, she turned to the elder girl. "I'll be along soon. There's a break room on the first floor, so try there."

Watching her run off, she faced her own handler who crouched down, bringing them face to face. Reaching out, he touched the wound in her arm. "Let me see that."

Triela shook her head. "I'll be fine."

"Is it painful?"

Suppressing a wince as probing fingers found the bullet entry, she pulled her face instead into a dry grimace.

"It will be if you keep doing that." Now she reached out in turn, touching the cut on his cheek. "You're hurt too you know."

"It's just a cut, I was lucky." Sighing, he stood up, glancing out toward where police now piled from their vehicles and, fishing in a pocket, retrieved a leather wallet she knew to contain his Europol credentials. "Go look after Odile, get Florentino patched up, and make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."

"Yes sir."

"And leave your shotgun with me."

Unshouldering the Winchester, and her recently acquired submachine gun, Triela turned away, just catching Hilshire say something to Mr. Vitale before he was lost to the clamour outside.

"Inspector Hilshire of Europol!"

It was going to be a long wait for the cleanup team.

* * *

"They didn't precisely bring children's toys, did they?"

Crouched by one of the Padania bodies, Hilshire pushed its spent Bizon out of the way, glancing up at Ferro before beginning to rifle though the dead man's pockets with gloved hands.

"Not exactly, no. These must have come from somewhere other than the conduit Blacker shut down though: that was a bulk military dumping ground, and the Bizon is not used by any of the Russians' regular branches."

"Cut off one head, another two grow in its place."

"Perhaps, but it was assault rifles in Venice, so if they've brought submachine guns to fight cyborgs this time we must have caused at least _some_ inconvenience."

The sun had set by now, street around lit by the strobing blue lights of parked police cars, flashing across softly glowing apartment windows. The police weren't the only ones present either, a white rental van also positioned to barricade one end of the battleground having brought Ferro's point team from the airport, while the cleanup crew's remainder travelled in from Rome by road.

Finding what he was looking for, the former detective stood, glancing toward the SWA's personnel manager.

"Well, that answers the question of how they identified us."

Handing over a bloodstained photo print, he waited for the suited woman to inspect it, and her expression hardened. "This is you and Triela."

"Yes, in Piazza della Cinque Lune, while we were hunting Anasetti," he grimaced, "so we know at least _one_ fratello whom have been compromised."

"How about the phone?"

Looking at the other item he had retrieved, Hilshire shook his head. "Locked, unsurprisingly."

"Gather up what you can then, I'll have the tech and intelligence departments stand by to start sifting through." Now she held up the photo. "This, on the other hand, is enough to let me shut down the locals. We'll police the bodies and they can have those, but until we can ensure nothing likely to threaten Op-Sec is at stake, The Agency will seize everything else."

The handler nodded. "Did you need me out here anymore?"

Looking back, phone already halfway to her ear, Ferro shook her head. "No, from this point on in I can pull rank myself, thank you. Once this is sorted, I'll send someone up to collect Odile."

Nodding his acquiescence, Hilshire turned away, catching sight of the crumpled shape of his car, that was probably going to be a write-off and, sighing, he headed back inside. Fact of the matter was, compromised or no, it was unlikely anyone else would be able to continue the Vito investigation... such was the issue of being the only person present with your particular skill set. Of course, it was entirely probable that Florentino and Odile were about to suffer the same blown cover, so he would at least be sharing that particular boat with the Blackers for a bit longer yet...

_Though, having spent the recent weeks with Florentino, he was seriously starting to doubt the man's ability to fill those particular shoes anyway._

Pulling the deceased Padan's phone from his pocket, he tapped it against an open palm thoughtfully. The best they could do now would be to try and figure out as quickly as possible who had been compromised and who had not and, if the Padania were set on finding fratelli quickly, the little device would hopefully hold the key to that. That was not all either: one of the Agency's resident hackers he knew to already be set up in the top floor office, collating what could be hauled back to Rome and what would be better taken care of here on site. With a bit of luck, that would produce an entirely different variety of useable information.

Pausing in his ascent, the handler looked into the small break room where Triela and Odile were sat at a bare table, cannibalised first aid kit between them. Beckoning his own charge over, Hilshire kept his voice low.

"Has someone taken a look at your injuries?"

"Yes, we've been patched up, though..." she grimaced, "...there will still be work to do once we're back at the compound."

Hilshire nodded, matching her expression: there always was in situations like these.

"And how is Odile?"

"Still down, this was her first actual engagement. It's hard enough for us to accept our handlers getting hurt, let alone on the first contact. She'll be fine, probably, once she has a chance to see Florentino will be okay, but until then I think she would be best back in the dorm, at least there she can talk to others for reassurance."

Another nod.

"Ferro says someone should be along to collect her and take her to the hospital shortly."

"Good. I'll stay here until they arrive."

Watching her handler head for the stairs again, Triela turned away, moving back to the dejected looking Odile. Slumped in her seat, the elder girl stared at her hands, thumbs fiddling nervously as her senior sat down opposite once more.

"Mr. Hilshire says someone should be along shortly to take you to Mr. Vitale."

That garnered a small smile. "Thank you, Triela... but I still don't know why I couldn't go with him in the ambulance."

"You need to maintain secrecy, both yours and the SWA."

"But I'm supposed to protect him!" The voice was a wail, and Triela signalled her to lower the volume, for what little good it did. "I was supposed to protect him in the fight, and I didn't, and now I can't make sure he's safe at the hospital either! If I had been paying more attention..."

"Yes, that happens." Feeling her voice change to something more matter of fact, the senior girl continued. "No matter how hard we try, no matter what we do, our handlers are still sometimes going to get hurt. It's difficult to accept, but it's also the nature of their work."

"But..."

"I'm not going to say 'give up trying', because as cyborgs we can't, we don't get a choice, but it is going to happen, and you'll need to learn to cope with it. I won't say it's easy, but you _will_ have to learn."

"No, I won't let it happen again!"

That induced a grimace, of _course_ she wouldn't, but...

"You're meant to be taking on the same role as Monty right?"

"Yes."

"I read she once let Mr. Blacker be beaten into a pulp rather than break cover."

"That's terrible! Why would she let that happen? _How_ did she let that happen?"

"I doubt she found it a pleasant experience..." a momentary pause, "...but I guess her perspective is a little different to ours." Querying eyebrows prompted her to continue. "Look at it this way: Monty could have saved Mr. Blacker, as a cyborg, and he would have been spared the immediate pain, but in revealing herself, she may have put him in greater future danger. In a way, she _was_ protecting him, but that protection was for a month, two, six... ten years or more down the track, rather than immediately. It's not the way we are conditioned to think but, like it or not, we may have to start taking a leaf or two from her book. If you had walked out the front door with Mr. Vitale yes, you could have protected him now, but you also would have been marked as a target for whenever the Padania next saw you, another broken cover."

_More broken than it is now at least._

"But it still feels... wrong."

"And it always will, but we can learn to manage it, and will have to manage it... you more than anyone."

At tap at the doorframe, and the SRT's Fausto Martinello poked his massive form through.

"Miss. Triela? I'm here to take Odile to the hospital."

The other girl's face brightened at that, and Triela hid a smile.

"Go on then, shoo."


	7. CH06 Zero-Day

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

_Fausto Martinello and Carlos Gallo belong to Officer_Charon, Elio Alboreto belongs to Professor Voodoo. _

* * *

**Chapter 06|Zero-Day**

Embraced deeply by one of Chief Lorenzo's leathery armchairs, Hilshire resisted the urge to fidget. Not that the SWA's commander furnished his office uncomfortably, far from it, but...

No, his discomfiture was not physically derived in the slightest.

In the seat opposite, Jean waited while the ever attendant Tea refreshed his coffee, before sipping at it to run eyes across the room's assembled personages. Starting at Ferro, one place closer the door, his cold gaze swept over the detective, before finishing at their collective boss, positioned behind his desk, afternoon light streaming in through windows on either side of tall bookshelves behind.

A sigh.

"I guess we should have seen this one coming. Hilshire's been spearheading our Anasetti investigation since the Rome attacks; with that sort of visibility it was only a matter of time until the Padania put two and two together."

Despite himself, Hilshire felt a little tension drain away at those words.

Lorenzo's eyebrows raised, looking over the top of steepled fingers. "I thought we sent Florentino to help mitigate that risk."

"We did, also to get Odile more public exposure before they deployed properly..." the field commander's eyes flicked away for a second, and Hilshire thought he saw them quickly catch Ferro's, "...among other things."

"Point is they've proven disturbingly ineffective," put in that latter, "on both fronts, seemingly."

"To be fair, we were in the process of leaving when the attack came. I do not think I would have caught the warning signs myself." Draining gritty dregs from his own coffee cup, the handler placed it down on his chair's broad arm with a slight rattle, gaze turning back toward the SWA's leader. "Had Florentino not been readying us to move, the Padans' attack may well have succeeded."

"And had Vitale been more on the ball, or his cyborg shown more initiative, the attack may not have gone through at all. We can forgive a certain lack of... _cold warrior_… level paranoia from those out of a law enforcement or military background but..."

"How is Florentino anyway?" Lorenzo's words cut calmly across Jean's.

It was however the support manager who answered, glancing at her notepad. "Not in a good way, though, by Doctor Donato's report, he's not suffering anything particularly life threatening. That said, he will be laid up for at least a month, probably more."

"And the cyborg?"

"Bianchi's keeping a close eye on her." The woman grimaced. "I suspect both will remain struck from the active roster for some time."

"I may have to hold Vitale locally for the foreseeable future anyway." Hilshire felt the lead handler's gaze land on him. "Your report said some of the Padania escaped?"

"Yes, Triela saw at least three make it to a getaway vehicle."

"Which means we're going to have to assume, at least until proven otherwise, that Florentino and Odile are known to the Separatists, so we can add them to the list of potentially compromised fratelli."

His words were hard, and the detective was sure a hint of frustration could be heard edging the normally emotionless tone. That was fair enough too, the field commander was probably enjoying this guessing game of who was or was not safe less than anyone.

Silence hung for a second, before being broken by a sigh as Jean continued. "If there's one upside, we at least now have a chance of getting a handle regarding who on our side the Padania have identified, and structuring our deployments to suit. Hilshire?"

Taking his cue, the German looked down to inspect his own notes.

"The _Primavera dei Servizi Finanziari_ building is still secured. Giorgio has loaned us Fausto and Carlos to help there, but we are needing to lean fairly heavily on Section One. They have also supplied a hacking team since we cannot do it ourselves, and are working at the company's network now. Fortunately it seems the fight turned so fast those left in the office did not have a chance to wipe the system, though actually getting in is slow..."

"I would have thought direct access to the computers would make it easier."

Lorenzo's words hung in the air, and Hilshire shrugged. "That is all I know, sorry, it is not my area of expertise. Phones and other personal effects confiscated from the dead Padans have been brought back here for our own people to work on. Once those are opened up, we are hopeful it will identify who the Padania have their people on the lookout for."

"And we did not give Section One the phones _because_?"

The detective paused at that, figuring out how to set his next words in order, and it was Jean who instead used the gap to answer.

"We're not sure what role Primavera had with the Padania, but the phones are more likely to contain operational information, or information more directly pertaining to our fratelli. I'm sure we can agree it would be better that is vetted _before_ letting Section One get their hands on it. We're also more likely to crack the phones first..." his glance landed on Hilshire again, who nodded, "...so if they contain anything relating to this Vito Genovese, we should get a head start there as well."

"We can pull itineraries and calendars off the phones and try to match them up against Vito's visits. That may give us an actual name, or at least a more solid alias, rather than the disposable ones seen so far," continued the German. He looked toward Lorenzo again. "That said, there is a high probability Primavera's data will add something else to the puzzle."

"Which means it is not ideal that Section One have first go at that either," finished Lorenzo.

"I would be happier generally if someone were riding herd on Section One in Trieste." Eyes swung back toward the field commander. "We've been very careful to keep them out of the loop regards Blacker's operations since he arrived, having a warm body to filter information or head off awkward questions about how we got there in the first place would be advisable."

Hilshire nodded, heaving an internal sigh as he did at what was coming next. "We _have_ been trying to hide involvement by the Blackers. I doubt any information we recover this time will connect them, even indirectly, but it would be better to be able to check."

Now his superior's gaze settled on him again. "How is Triela?"

_So much for getting a breather._

"Out of hospital this morning."

"Good. I want you to head back up north and keep an eye on the hackers. You will need Section One's information eventually anyway, so we may as well kill two birds with one stone."

There it was. Unfortunately, compromised or no, there was really only one person with the required case knowledge to go.

And, if he were to be really cold about it, it made more sense to send someone already in the Padania's sights, rather than a fratello yet to be exposed. Still...

"If it is okay with you, Jean, I would like to leave Triela in Rome. There's not a lot she can do in Trieste, and the lack of a cyborg may throw any Padan observers."

"No." There wasn't even a pause for thought. "The Padania already have your photo, you're far better off with her for protection. Besides, if we lose you up there she becomes useless anyway."

That drew and internal grimace: not an unexpected response either.

Now the handler glanced back down at his notes, tapping a finger in thought. The Padania had managed to put together enough firepower to pressure a two fratello team already, so if he couldn't keep Triela out of danger, then...

"The locals have already proven they can put up a decent fight against two fratelli. I would be happier taking another pair with us again."

That _did_ get a pause as it was considered, but Jean's head shook once more. "No, not yet at least, I don't want to risk potentially uncovering someone who is still in the clear. That said..." His attention moved for a second. "...Ferro? Talk to Giorgio and see if we can't borrow his two a bit longer."

The support manager nodded, before turning her attention to Hilshire, seemingly pre-empting his next question. "I'll approve you to draw a pool vehicle for now. The SWA paperwork to cover your car's replacement will, unfortunately, take some time to process, and I doubt insurance will pay out."

The handler stifled a sigh. "Let me know what Giorgio says, and if Martinello or Gallo need anything brought along." Now, his attention returned to Jean. "How soon do you want me in place?"

"As soon as possible, tomorrow night at the latest, and I suggest drawing some heavier weaponry anyway, whatever Giorgio's response."

That received a stiff nod as Hilshire rose from his seat. "Then if you will excuse me... Ferro, I will need to put in a requisition to replace some of the equipment lost in the Mercedes."

"Email me and I'll rush it through after this."

Watching as the man made his exit, Jean waited for the door to clack shut before looking back toward his commander. "I don't like leaving fratelli so exposed. As soon as we know who the Padania have spotted and who they have not, I want to send Victor some form of support, probably another of the compromised pairs."

There was a pause as Tea again moved quietly through the group, refilling drinks, before collecting the departed Hilshire's cup, Lorenzo's pen tapping against the desk as he thought. Finally, the chief spoke up.

"Do you think that's the best course of action? Seeing two suspect pairs together is likely to confirm in the Padans' minds that they have a viable target, and you would be putting double the number of people in harm's way."

"I doubt the Separatist leadership would be handing out 'most wanted' card decks if they were not fairly convinced of identities. They have to play the political game as much as we, maybe even more, if they want to keep any public opinion on their side, and killing a man and child in broad daylight will be bad enough. Killing the _wrong_ man and child would be catastrophic, and they have to be as aware of that as we are."

That got a wry chuckle. "You've been talking to Priscilla's people haven't you?"

"I have. Be that as it may, we can't keep holding fratelli back: it's hobbling our operations and strangling us politically. I think our best course of action is to isolate and compartmentalise those fratelli still suspected to be under the radar, and reinforce those who _are_ compromised to give them a fighting chance: minimum two fratelli per mission for the compromised pairs, and no crossover to those still in the clear."

"This of course all assumes the Padans' phones actually yield up the expected data," Ferro chipped in.

"It does, but at the moment it's the best chance we have to get back on track."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we're back to square one." Jean gave a wry snort. "We can at least put Hilshire and Vitale on the 'found' list… so we're two up on where we were before."

Behind his desk, Lorenzo took a sip of coffee. "You're assuming Florentino and Odile are compromised then?"

"I think we have to, for their safety and everyone else's." Pausing to mimic his boss's motion, the lead handler looked between his two companions. "To be honest, I'm not entirely unhappy at the excuse to hold Vitale back, lot of good our new master spy turned out to be."

"Well maybe if we had not been in such a rush to get one on board, and actually done a proper candidate screening, we wouldn't be having this problem."

Ferro's words were terse, and the chief waved a calming hand. "I know, we pushed him through to keep the politicos happy, but had we not there may never have been a chance to find another."

"I'm not entirely convinced we're in a 'some is better than none' situation."

"In this case, we might just be."

Eyes returned to Jean under questioning eyebrows, and he took another mouthful of coffee, using it to cover as he arranged his thoughts: something Blacker had said during the hunt for Anasetti… Taking heed had paid off then, and it looked like it might just give them a way forward now as well.

_The man could be a great asset here, if he and his cyborg were not such incredible disruptions._

"We can't deploy Vitale internationally anymore, we can't risk having a compromised fratello get into trouble that far from home." Another sip. "Moreover, and Blacker pointed this out during the sniper hunt also, the greatest protection any fratello operating internationally has is that no-one really expects to see cyborgs outside Italy's borders yet. We're under pressure domestically certainly, but the farther from the epicentre you move the less prevalent cyborg rumours become. Having a fratello recognised in, say, Paris would shatter that perception."

"Yet the Blackers have gone to France?"

Ferro again.

"We still need someone out there and, loath as I am to admit it, no-one is better than the Blackers at not looking like a fratello, a façade they took pains to maintain chasing Anasetti."

"And when they need backup? Or someone has to make a shorter hop outside?"

"Then we take a calculated risk… which precludes Vitale from going and, all considered, I'm not so convinced we should be continuing to try and bolster our international operations further at this stage anyway."

Another pause, and this time it was Lorenzo who filled it. "And you still think you can find use for him domestically?"

"I do."

"He won't like that."

"The more his problem. He has had the better part of four months now to turn his cyborg into a spy, and by all reports she is still far from. Monique deployed in _one_ and, according to Priscilla's reading…" his words faltered a second, "…_she_ believes Odile to be a liability."

"In fairness," the SWA's support manager quirked a rare smile, "Monty considers everyone to be a liability."

"Yes, but in this context her cynicism may actually be worth taking on board. Florentino was not the only reason I backed his fratello being frozen out of the Blackers' cases."

Silence fell again as that thought was digested. A fratello was an expensive asset and, with the SWA's financial honeymoon period very much over, that one may now be failing in its duties was a potentially fatal problem. Particularly after a much touted hire.

Eventually Lorenzo's chair creaked, rocking back on ancient hinges, and the chief regarded his two subordinates over steepled fingers.

"By the sound of that, Odile is half the issue. How do you think Florentino would go if we replaced his cyborg… with a properly screened candidate of _our_ choice this time, rather than one selected on potential bust size?"

Another pause, then Jean shook his head. "As much as we need his experience, I don't believe he would be worth sinking the extra capital into, nor would I be willing to bet on a different outcome should we try."

"It would also be more than purely the expense of an additional cyborg unit." Added Ferro. "Jean can correct me if I'm wrong, but reconditioning Odile would create a major hit to morale. We can't just wipe the other girls like after Raballo either: there're too many of them, and I doubt the four remaining first generations may even survive the required conditioning dose."

The field commander nodded. "It's a good point, and right now I can't afford to risk putting Hilshire out of action any longer than necessary either." Glancing down at his now empty coffee cup left an empty beat, which he used to get back on course. "That aside, the way things are developing, Vitale's basic skill set is going to be just as useful distributed domestically as deployed where we originally intended to put him."

"He hasn't exactly covered himself in glory regards passing that knowledge on..." the chief's words were dry, "...to other fratelli _or_ his cyborg."

"No he has not. Despite his best efforts though, or lack thereof, by all accounts Odile is perfectly competent at meeting the more traditional _cyborg_ requirements. According to Giorgio she passed her _VdCO_ well, which also makes me less enthusiastic regards the prospect of re-writing her."

"He wasn't just going soft was he?"

Jean pulled a wry expression at that. "Not Giorgio, we get him to head the _VdCO_ assessments for a reason."

"Which brings us back to the question of how to manage Odile and her handler, then spin that decision to the purse string holders. Jean, ultimately how we proceed here is your call."

A pause.

"Honestly, whatever his previous record, Vitale's management of his fratello so far makes me uneasy at the thought of putting him into a Blacker style position. I didn't think to get Jethro's view on the matter, but Priscilla's read on Monique's opinion I believe backs that." He paused to let the words sink in, before continuing. "That said, Vitale can still be of use domestically… and I think that probably also gives us an opening in how to phrase explaining the decision."

He tailed off, and Lorenzo's chair creaked again as he let it swing back upright. "I would want to check what correspondence was sent out so we don't accidentally contradict ourselves, but I could probably spin it that we were really looking for a Blacker-_ish_ skill set, rather than another fratello to necessarily step into their shoes."

"Considering how tough the domestic environment is getting, that may well be justification enough to hold Vitale as an internal operator on its own. Reference Trieste if we have to," added Ferro.

"I'd prefer to not throw a spotlight on Trieste if at all possible, but you have a point." Drawing a notebook open, the chief uncapped his pen to scrawl quickly in it. "Play this right and we may even be able to turn it to our advantage… which just leaves how to manage Vitale."

That drew a grunt from Jean. "Much as I would like to make my thoughts clear to him in no uncertain terms, I think the answer is 'gently'. If he goes crying back to AISE it's going to cause all manner of trouble, so the kid gloves unfortunately need to stay on. For now I will phrase things such that, after Trieste, we can't safely deploy him outside Italy. It's too risky to him and everyone else, so he is to make himself useful on the domestic front."

"He's still going to need to get his act together regards Odile for that to be worth it."

"He is." The field commander glanced down at his notes again, before turning eyes back toward Lorenzo. "The handlers are usually pretty good at self-policing, but we might pull Alboreto and some of their more senior number aside to start putting some pressure on him from that angle. If that doesn't pan out, it will at least prep him for being given the official word."

"He'll probably push back on much of that."

"I'm sure he will, which is why I particularly wanted Alboreto, he's at least more difficult to push back _against_." Glancing toward the door again, a wry thought crossed Jean's mind. "It's a pity Hilshire only gets confrontational where his cyborg is concerned, otherwise we could have started already."

* * *

Closing the heavy, soundproof, office door, Hilshire halted momentarily to mentally organise how he was going to fit his new, albeit not unexpected, task into existing plans, before stepping over to where Triela waited patiently by the wall.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

There was a pause, filled with slightly awkward silence. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Come along then, we have work to do."

Walking away down the corridor, the handler heard his charge fall in beside. "Mr. Lorenzo has given us somewhere to go?"

"Yes, back to Trieste. I'll pick you up from the dorm at seven tomorrow morning."

"How long for?"

"Not certain, until Section One finish breaking into Primavera's computers, so I would say at least a week…" a sigh, "…I would have preferred a little more time for you to recuperate."

"I said I'm fine," her words firm, "the doctors gave me a clean bill of health this morning."

Firm, yes, but he had heard that 'leave me alone' tone before as well.

"They also said for you to avoid any strenuous activity for the next few days."

"Then don't get shot at again."

The handler bit his tongue. He found it difficult to understand how returning to the scene of their last fire fight would mitigate strenuous activity however, like it or not, no-one else could take his place, so back to Trieste they went… and there was nothing further he could think of to say to Triela which would not put her out of sorts.

_So best keep his mouth shut._

Descending the last flight of stairs, Hilshire lead out into the car park, shadow cast across its still mostly occupied courtyard by the low sun. Crunching over worn asphalt the detective led to a small, open topped, vehicle, parked amongst its larger brethren. Settling into one of the hard, steel, seats, he reached forward, twisting the ignition to start it with a clatter as his cyborg stepped into the passenger position, yelling across the carburetted engine's racket.

"Where are we going now!?"

Shoving the spindly gear lever into first and leaning down to release the handbrake, the former detective edged out of his space.

"Same as we intended to before: collect Odile from the hospital, see her handler, then take her back to the dorm!"

He gave up after that, instead concentrating on grinding the yellow Moke through aged gears as it careened along the SWA's lanes. A loaner from the carpool, the pseudo 4x4 made up one of the hodgepodge of vehicles used to ferry personnel and equipment around campus…

…_obviously around campus, no-one would be fool enough to take it on the open road._

Needless to say, it had not precisely been his first choice.

Mercifully the jarring, bouncy journey came to an end relatively quickly and, pulling into the hospital car park next to Bianchi's beaten Alfa estate, Hilshire hauled himself from the Mini's seatbelt-less steel tub once more, traipsing toward the medical wing door.

Entering into its shabby, 70s-esque foyer, his identification was scanned at the small security station, before being ushered through to lead Triela into cramped halls beyond.

"We'll pick up Odile first, but let's make sure to keep things brief."

In stark contrast to the building's worn ground floor, the basement levels barely showed a sign of use since the Agency's inception, scuffed lift doors out of place as they opened onto a brightly lit hall, fluorescent lamps reflecting off clean, modern, lines.

Turning down the corridor, padding along black, non-slip vinyl, Hilshire passed through another heavy security door, walls beyond lined with pairs of entries. Selecting the second of one set, he turned back to his charge.

"Wait out here."

"Yes, sir."

Inside was dark, twin forms of Doctors Bianchi and Donato backlit by a pane of single direction glass down the longest side, the latter clasping a folder in one hand.

"Is she ready to go?"

Donato nodded, glancing into the brightly lit bedroom beyond. "She is though, like Triela, she will need to avoid any strenuous activity for another week. That at least shouldn't be a problem with her handler out of action. I believe Triela will be keeping an eye on her in the dorm?"

The German grimaced. "_Someone_ will be. We have been ordered back to Trieste, but I will ask Triela to organise the other girls to watch her."

That drew an unimpressed expression from the surgeon, but it was Bianchi who replied. "Do so, if you could: Odile is still tender over her handler's condition, and her perceived failure to protect him. If she starts getting any worse, I would like to know."

"I will."

Donato nodded, apparently having nothing more to say regards Jean's dismissal of doctor's orders, and instead held out the folder. "Well, in that case, you're free to sign her out."

Taking the proffered packet, Hilshire added his signature in lieu of Florentino's to the cover sheet and, tearing that off, the doctor left the remainder in his grasp.

"That's Odile's medical report. If you could give it to Florentino I think you're free to go."

Getting a nod from Bianchi, the handler made his exit, collecting his cyborg on the way through before brushing his ID against a reader set beside the door of the adjoining room. From inside came the thunk of heavy bolts retracting, and he swung the thick panel open, leaning against its solidly reinforced weight.

_Definitely more than would be required to retain any human._

Inside, Odile sat on her bed, already dressed in black, wet look, leggings, and a short top, which someone had apparently brought down from the dorm for her.

Her head spun round as he stepped into the room, automatic smile faltering slightly as she caught sight of her visitors, and the handler forced his own good natured expression into place. "Good afternoon, Odile."

"Hello, Mr. Hilshire… Triela."

An awkward pause.

"Florentino is still in hospital, so we will be taking you back to the dorm..." The smile faded further at those words, and he held up the folder. "…but first I need to give him this."

That took a moment to register, but then the blonde's face brightened again, and she slid off the bed, collecting a couple of magazines which had been laying on crisply starched sheets. Teenager titles, by the looks of things.

"Yes, Mr. Hilshire!"

Making a point of keeping his eyes high, the handler ushered his temporary charge out into the corridor, leading once more back toward the lifts. Letting the two cyborgs precede him into its car, he this time selected one of the upper floors, before turning to find Odile's curvaceous form stood close behind. Arms crossed uncertainly under her bust, compressing and lifting, she looked up to meet his eyes.

"Umm, how is Florentino?"

Wishing he had some space left to retreat, Hilshire resisted the urge to glance away, instead meeting that nervous gaze. "He will be fine. His injuries were quite severe, but he will recover. You might be off the active roster for a few months though."

"Oh."

Her eyes dropped at that, white teeth biting a plump lower lip as lift doors opened again, and he found himself automatically looking for some words of comfort as both girls were ushered out into another corridor, this one bearing the scars of yet a different past renovation.

Pausing on industrial carpet, the German spoke once more. "That does not mean those months need to be lost. We will still be running classes, and I am sure other handlers will be able to help maintain your training..."

He tailed off… too late: he was having enough trouble right now, just what sort of havoc would Odile being sent off with other handlers wreak in the cyborg dorm?

"Then, could _you_…"

"No." The word had come out harder than expected, and he consciously softened his tone. "Sorry Odile, we're being sent back to Trieste tomorrow."

"Oh."

Now his own charge piped up, voice remaining similarly even. "I'm sure you can work in with us when we get back, and I will ask around the dorm to see if anyone can help out before then."

The first gen's eyes turned back to him now, flashing slightly. He knew that expression, she wasn't happy about _something._

The handler nodded. "I'll send an email as well, and see if Ferro or Priscilla can help organise a few volunteers."

"Umm, thank you."

"And now, we _are_ heading back to Trieste tomorrow morning, so I am afraid we must keep moving."

Turning at that, he led away down the corridor, cutting across the building's rear to knock at a door, its wooden face holding a metal card with '4' stamped into it.

"Enter."

The voice from behind was muffled, but still legible, needing only to penetrate light veneer and, pushing once more into the room beyond, Hilshire let the two girls trickle in behind.

By contrast to the stark cyborg facility, this space was much warmer: vinyl flooring only appearing outside a wet-area entrance, easily replaced carpet tiles substituting everywhere else. A bed butted onto one wall, large window beside allowing warm twilight to stream over honey coloured wood furniture and the figure rested beneath white sheets, mattress propped up to let it sit comfortably.

Or at least as comfortably as one in such a position could.

Looking over from his repose, Florentino gave a small gesture of greeting, careful not to disturb the intravenous lines hooked into one arm, other shoulder set in a spidery plastic brace, part obscuring surgical scars. His smashed hip and pelvis were presumably similarly immobilised, though currently only a lumpy form could be seen beneath light blankets.

"Florentino!"

Odile's cry beat Hilshire's own greeting as she rushed past.

"Stop!" The former AISE man's shout however brought her to a screeching halt, before he continued. "If you jar me wrong I'll be in here even longer."

Now his attention turned to the other handler. "Did you have to bring the cyborgs with you, Victor?"

Beside him, the blonde girl's face dropped but, if he noticed his charge's changed expression, it wasn't evident, and Hilshire instead held up the file. "I had to pick her up to give you this, and I cannot very well leave them wandering around the medical wing unattended."

That got a sigh. "Alright, how is she?"

"Donato said she is fine, though it would be best if she avoided any strenuous activity for a week or so."

"No fear there, I'm not taking her anywhere soon."

"I was going to ask some of the other handlers if they would make sure her training continued."

A pause, then the bed-ridden agent nodded. "That would be good, but just the basics, first generation stuff... I don't want anyone else trying to teach her how to spy."

The German bit back a retort at that slight, and instead nodded. "I will make sure I pass that on."

"Good, it will knock a month and a half or so out of her actual education, minimum, but beats going backward."

"A month and a half!? Are you going to be okay?" Odile's blurted sentence cut off suddenly, the girl turning pale as if she had spoken out of turn, and her next words were more cautious. "Umm... sir?"

"I'll be fine, but they can't just swap parts out of me like they can you." The returning tone was stony, and now Florentino's eyes swept across the remaining assembled bodies. "Of course, if anyone had been paying more attention I may not have wound up in this position to begin with."

It was a small jab in itself, but it was one of many, and Hilshire felt his own mood sour, pausing before he responded.

"Triela, go wait outside. Take Odile with you."

Picking the message, his charge nodded, ushering her less experienced sibling from the room and closing the door. Cyborgs could be touchy about their handlers, so it was never a good idea to argue in front of them and, while he was fairly comfortable Triela could protect him against a second gen, letting that altercation occur in the first place did no-one any good.

_Not to mention criticising an authority figure in front of a subordinate was just something not done._

Now his attention turned back to the bed ridden man.

"From what I remember, keeping a spy's eye out for potential threats was why _you _joined us, Florentino."

"That was _part_ of the reason, but I'm only one man, and that doesn't give everyone else in the area permission to slack off."

"No, it does not. However, you were being relied upon to cover a known experience gap, to pick up on things those not from an espionage background may miss, like someone spending too much time in a window, for example."

"And people are also supposed to learn from me doing so, I would hope _some_ may at least have started to make use of my teaching, we've been paired up long enough."

"Well I suspect you're going to get plenty more opportunity to teach." Hilshire suppressed the slight hint of enjoyment at his opposite's suddenly unsure expression, that tingle quickly replaced by an immediate sense of guilt for his lapse into schadenfreude.

"Meaning?"

"Some of the Padania got away, which means you are considered compromised. I doubt Jean will risk sending you over the border now."

"You've got to fucking kidding me."

"No."

"So what the fuck am I supposed to do once I get out of here?"

"As you suggested: perhaps teach… presuming you feel inclined to actually start attempting to do so, rather than simply rubbing people's noses in your own perceived superiority. Some will need it too: one upside of the whole mess is that we are probably going to find out who the Padania have identified so far..."

"Except that information was acquired prior to me being seen."

"Indeed."

No response.

"I am sure someone will be down to brief you once they have an idea of how they wish to proceed." Still nothing and, giving an internal shrug, Hilshire began to turn toward the door. "Now, if you will excuse me, Triela and I are headed back to Trieste. I have quite a lot of organising to do prior to tomorrow morning."

Letting himself out the door and closing it behind once more, Hilshire looked around for his two charges, letting himself cool down in the process. That, frankly, had not been one of his more glorious moments.

Quickly he found them, seated a little distance away on spartan corridor chairs, Triela bright enough to have taken Odile well beyond earshot. That was good, and he moved quickly to them.

"Come on, let us get you two back to the dorm."

Standing, the elder girl looked up at him once more. "Do we not get to go back in and see Florentino?"

"I think he has other things on his mind."

"Oh."

It was a short journey back to the lifts, and he heard Odile behind, already perkier as they drew away from her handler's presence. "Still, a month and a half, that's not too bad... I guess. At least Florentino wasn't too badly injured."

"By the sound of things no..." Triela's voice, "...but I think this will be one of the longer stays a handler has needed to make in hospital."

_That was the truth..._

There was a bing as the lift arrived and the girls ushered inside, Hilshire following behind to select the ground floor.

..._hopefully they would be able to glean at least _some_ good from the whole debacle._

* * *

A shaft of sunlight, pushing through sullen clouds above, caused Monty to squint as their taxi emerged from the cross-harbour tunnel, and she stole a surreptitious glance in the rear-view mirror, using that sudden brightness to find the beaten Toyota van which had trailed them from Wan Chai. Not quite what she had wanted to see mind, but loosing the tail on dead straight highway was an unlikely daydream.

_Seemingly Zhang still had at least a few warm bodies to spare._

Quickly nosing off the motorway, their driver swung around a wide roundabout, away from the city proper and back toward the more industrialised Yau Tong district, cited where Victoria Harbour narrowed to the south eastern end of Kowloon Bay. On the closer shore, decrepit factory shells were being cleared into waste ground, ready for new construction, and the taxi skirted along its mud-smeared edge, snaking between rusting trucks.

Leaning over, Jethro pointed to where tall columns rose up on the road's opposite flank, forming a barrier between them and towering apartments on wooded slopes beyond. "That's the Metro Station there, if this rain clears we might take the cheaper option home."

Ahead, tarmac ducked again between concrete walls, and their driver followed it in, cutting down a narrower side street, route twisting through the artificial maze before emerging onto a more major thoroughfare. To take the roundabout path had not required much convincing: promise of a few extra Hong Kong dollars and a larger fare to boot doing most of the talking.

On either side, wide roller doors were thrown open to display busy loading bays, the occasional more human sized entry wedged in beside, giving access to an office or upper level and, drawing nearer one, Monty nudged her handler. Out the window, a newer sign had been tacked to crumbling render, black writing on an orange and white background underpinned by Chinese characters: the local Hermes depot, signage the only thing to differentiate it from its brethren.

Rolling by, the young agent took the opportunity to glance in past its opened door: another loading floor, stout columns supporting the highrise above, enough space between to manoeuvre a truck with relative ease. It wasn't large though, certainly no-one would be storing shipping containers in there, plenty of pallets, but not containers.

Then they were gone, allowing her a brief glimpse through plate windows to the reception: a desk on one side, coffee table and waiting chairs, stairs leading up into the building proper.

So they could not store a container, not for an extended period, and were just about at the opposite end of Victoria Harbour from the port, which of course begged the question: why? Why would Anagnos Shipping's forwarding subsidiary choose this particular location?

Seemingly she was not alone in those thoughts and, leaning down again, Jethro gestured out the window as similar shop fronts slid past, the road descending back toward water as he did. "Well, they're certainly not Robinson Crusoe in being here."

Turning off the street end, the taxi skirted a sheltered harbour, concrete walls enclosing an odd collection of power cruisers and rusting live-aboards, tiny sampan fishing craft scattered amongst them, lights in some suggesting they may serve as both income and bedroom. Buildings on the confined waters' far shore were just as humble, and their taxi pulled in amongst curiously rustic single storey shop fronts, customers bustling between and flowing around the car.

Leaning over his seat, the driver looked at his passengers. "Lei Yue Mun Seafood Market."

Leaving Jethro to pay, Monty let herself out, stepping under a dripping awning to watch as the van halted up the street, disgorging one of their known tails. Backing a little farther into the shop, the cyborg leaned over a bubbling tank, seemingly to inspect its wriggling contents, keeping one eye on their follower as the petite woman brushed back her fringe of dark hair, nailing it in place with a bobby pin, and straightened her loose t-shirt.

_Still getting dressed, so presumably the van also carried a change of clothes inside... smart._

Shifting focus, the girl studied the vehicle in question, memorising its patina of dents and scrapes, before finally also noting the number plate as her partner's door closed with a thud. Still bent over, a hand shortly slid around her side, resting on the curve of her belly, and she felt lips against her ear.

"Noodle today is it?"

"Mmmhmm."

"So, what else are you looking at?"

Head twisting slightly to bring her handler's features into peripheral vision, she jerked it down toward the tank where long, segmented, crustaceans scrambled over one another.

"Lunch, I suspect."

"Those I might try..." now a grin passed across his face as he gestured to the display beside where fat, pink, tubes pulsated slowly in contrast to their more energetic neighbours, "...but I don't think I'm decrepit enough to need the help of the fat innkeeper yet."

That earned a cocked eyebrow, covering an evaluating stare, and he stood up properly. "Come on, let's have a look around before we decide what to eat, and whom to have cook it."

Feeling a palm nestle itself in the small of her back, Monty allowed herself to be guided into narrow alleys, leading deeper into the seafood district, keeping close under shop fronts to make best use of their awnings against persistently drizzling rain. These were not the alleys of Wan Chai or Mong Kok, neon twilight traded for bright lamps over the bustling activity, people haggling across open tanks, occupants making lazy turns, unaware of the bargains being struck for their lives above.

Joining that throng, the fratello meandered store to store along slick pavements, pausing at one or another to inspect its wares, forcing their follower to show similar interest in what was displayed before her.

_She would have to go before they went back to Hermes._

Only so much could be done to manufacture an appropriate opportunity however, but there was plenty else to discuss in the meantime until it presented.

"What I would like to know is what Hermes is doing all the way down here."

There was a minute pause from above then, pulling in to face another living menu, her partner leaned down, as if to inspect where large, speckled fish nudged up against each other, waiting to be taken to one of the innumerable restaurants scattered amongst seafood stores. "Not sure, maybe the rent is cheaper? Or it is easier for regular folk to drop their goods here, rather than attempt to bring them through port security?"

"Then why not set up shop right near the port itself? Surely the transport costs alone would quickly mitigate any difference in rent."

"Maybe, maybe not. If they can pull a barge against the foreshore it might be cheaper to take loads up in bulk, might, and it would skip any chance of getting intercepted on the road to boot."

Now it was Monty's turn to pause, before shifting her head slightly once more to bring lips closer his ear. "Which may in itself explain the farther location: could be there is less scrutiny on the shop front down this end of town."

"Possibly. Whatever the reason though, they're not the only ones pursuing it. I think I counted at least three other forwarders on the road in."

"Four."

"Four then... maybe something to have a chat about: we'll want to drop past the others anyway, so might as well spread the questioning around."

Allowing herself to be shuffled along to the next stall, forming a corner between this alley and one of its smaller tributaries, Monty used an aquarium reflection to inspect behind. Noodle had remained where she was, apparently comfortable they were still close enough to keep an eye on and, while the cyborg watched, that store's hovering owner decided this particular customer had been in place long enough without attention. His Cantonese was incomprehensible across the market's background noise, muffled further as the rain picked up again, but whatever was said drew her gaze away.

_It wasn't much, but it would do._

Letting a thicker patch of crowd drift into the interceding gap, the young agent touched her partner's arm lightly, and they disappeared into the side alley, walking quickly out of sight.

The walls were closer here, pressing the throng at their backs tighter, and Jethro took the lead, elbows working to nudge open a path as surprised shouts started to emanate from behind. Seemingly Noodle had noticed their absence, and was being none too cautious in her pursuit.

Another corner gave the pair a little leeway, enough to slip by the first alley they passed, taking the junction after, pace settling some as they swung around another turn, cutting back through Lei Yue Mun Market's dripping maze, sounds of the Autumn Orchid agent's progress fading. Slowing again, Monty felt herself once more guided into a shop doorway, this one extending back slightly to give some cover from the street and still intense downpour, dark clouds creating a dull twilight. Keeping one eye on those traipsing through running rivulets outside, the cyborg let the other wander over now ubiquitous tanks and back to the shelves she now stood in front of, stacked with dried ingredients to go with their still swimming counterparts.

"Wait for five." Jethro's voice came from beside her ear. "If there's no sign of Zhang's crowd, we'll start looping back around to head for Hermes."

"I don't remember his people being that overt trying to catch up before."

"Well, it was only a matter of time before they figured out we were aware who the tails were, assuming they didn't expect it from the off. Maybe we've started being difficult enough for them to give up the charade."

That drew a non-committal sound, and the girl instead picked up a sheaf of plastic-wrapped seaweed, attention never leaving the street. The swarm out there was rapidly thinning, seeking shelter like themselves. Fortunately this particular shop's proprietor seemed well aware they were little more than weather driven refugees, leaving the pair alone, which made for a somewhat more bearable wait.

Finally, looking at his watch, her handler nodded, and Monty felt the hand this time settle on the nape of her neck, urging her into motion. However, barely had she stepped off the shop interior's raised slab than the slap of running feet, approaching across wet tarmac from Jethro's off side, registered. Fighting down the urge to interdict herself between them, the girl instead let her gaze swing around as a small, slightly aged, Chinese man jogged up, shirt and shorts drenched, flat sandal soles generating the distinctive noise.

Dashing up, he held up a white paper bag. "Sir! Sir! You forget this."

Sharing a glance with her partner, she watched as he accepted the package and, as he did, their new arrival straightened up to bring their faces closer, cyborg ears discerning his words in lieu of similar proximity. "Mr. Tiger sends his compliments."

Unrolling the bag's top, the former SIS man inspected its contents, before cocking an eyebrow and passing it down to her. "Thank Mr. Tiger for his kindness."

Nodding, the little man was gone again and, unravelling the package herself, Monty reached in to extract a small box, printed front decorated by a leaping striped cat.

"Tiger Balm... _funny_." If there was humour in the words, it was desert dry and, opening the container, the girl lifted out a little, hexagonal, bottle, weighing it in her hand. "Doesn't feel full, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say there is probably a thumb drive in here. Rather nice of Tiger to finally come through."

Beside her however, Jethro appeared to be thinking, and she replaced bottle and box whence they had come, rolling the bag up again as he began to speak.

"Well now, this changes things a little."

"Physically, mentally, or in a more theological sense?"

A dry look.

"_Mentally_, I suspect, because if that _is_ Tiger getting back to us, then we may do better avoiding Hermes all together for now." That earned him a cocked eyebrow, and he continued. "If Tiger has managed to locate our container, we'll probably want to save any brownie points left for slipping away after it."

The eyebrow stayed up, standing in for any reminder that they had already left Zhang's operative behind, and therefore whatever leeway they had been going to lose today was likely already blown.

"And so, in that case, what about Mary? Do we check on her the same time we check on wherever Tiger has pinpointed?"

"I think so. The further up the line we can start, the fewer people we need to question to find out how far she has progressed."

Monty took a moment to digest the words, before nodding: that made sense, and Mary was presumably bright enough to have moved her investigation along decently.

"So then, now what?"

By way of explanation, Jethro flagged down the shop keeper, gesturing to a tank containing some variety of lobster analogue, flattened and spiny. "_Néih hóu ma_... uhh... _Nīgo... géidō... chín a_?"

The man stared for a moment, before nodding and, perhaps taking pity, produced a paper pad, on which he proceeded to scrawl down the price, before holding it out for inspection.

"_Ḿhgòi._" The handler held up two fingers, expression remaining one of question. Seemingly their server got the message as, turning away, he found a bag and began to extract two of the segmented crustaceans.

"If nothing else, finding us simply dining after breaking contact should set a cat amongst the pigeons."

The shop keeper was back now, handing over the beginnings of lunch but, before her handler could say anything else, Monty pointed to another tank of pink, pulsating, fat innkeeper spoon worms. _"Ḿhgòi."_

That brought another pause, their server's eyes flicking between Jethro's slightly weathered, six foot, former SIS agent frame, and the petite teenager stood at his side. Eventually though he shrugged, turning to find a net and another bag and, as he did, the girl felt her partner's wry gaze.

"You trying to tell me something?"

Her response was quick. "Call Noodle's competence into question we might, but let's ensure at least a few people out here remember us looking to be fed as well."

"You see me not haggling?"

* * *

Trieste had seemingly remained in stasis since their last visit, perhaps born of summer's balmy stupor, still beating down on idyllic architecture and glinting off the harbour's blue waves.

_Were it not for the change of vehicle, part of him might have suspected they were about to relive the same day over._

Dropping another gear, Hilshire turned down the narrow street which fronted Primavera's offices, letting the big BMW 535i he had selected idle along as he searched for a suitably sized car space. The vehicle itself was not new, early 1990's, originally acquired from Massimiliano Anasetti himself: the sniper's transport for shooting up Rome. Since then the technology department had been over it with a fine tooth comb, conducted a full service, changed number plates, touched up paint, and declared the saloon fit for use by SWA personnel.

_All of which would likely need to be changed again after he had finished with it._

That thought brought a wry smile: if nothing else, he was starting to get an appreciation for the sort of paranoia some other fratelli lived under off-compound, though the situation's irony was not lost on him either.

Ahead, the finance office was coming in to view. Someone had erected anti-gawking screens to prevent onlookers on from peering in at the bullet damaged façade since he had last seen it, a Carabinieri guard watching the sole entrance, hands folded atop a PM12 submachine gun… something else the detective was grateful for.

Glancing sideways now, he found Triela in the passenger seat, upright and alert, constantly scanning the world outside. She had every right to be jumpy too and, if he were honest, he also was not entirely thrilled by their situation. Consequently, both fratello members had added an MP7 to their arsenal, stowed under respective places for easy access. Light body armour also now skulked under dress shirts, making the old vehicle's struggling air conditioning seem even less effective than it may otherwise have been.

Passing the barricaded entrance, Hilshire pulled up ahead of a gap in the street's seemingly solid wall of parked cars, before rolling the black BMW into place, shuffling back and forward briefly in the tight space to line up parallel to the kerb.

Turning the car off, he scanned the area. "How does it look out there?"

Triela's reply was quick coming. "I can't see anyone."

"Good. Leave the machine pistol here, but keep an eye out."

"Yes sir."

Letting his charge exit first, the former Europol man moved quickly around to the boot, reaching in awkwardly to unlock it from the flank rather than try and squeeze into the tiny gap between his bumper and that of the car behind. From inside was extracted Triela's shotgun bag, handed off to her, along with a similarly packaged laptop. Those were followed by two heavy pelican cases, which were placed on the footpath.

Closing the boot again, the handler looked once more at his charge. "Is the street still clear?"

"Yes."

"Let's go then."

Picking up the cases he set off back toward Primavera's offices, keeping vehicles between himself and the rest of the street for as long as possible, before skirting shade cloth barriers to pull up in front of the watching _carabiniere_. Dropping half his load momentarily, he extracted a wallet, holding it out to show credentials.

"Victor Hilshire, Ministry of the Interior."

Taking the proffered ID, the man studied it quickly, glancing back at the German's face before his eyes moved to rest pointedly on Triela. Not getting a response however, he closed the wallet up, handing it back and stepping aside.

"Welcome Agent Hilshire, if there is anything I can do to help, let me know."

"Thank you."

Wallet pocketed once more, he picked up the stray case, stepping around the guard to quickly climb chipped stone stairs into the building lobby, Triela following behind.

Inside, the office still showed fresh scars of battle, shattered windows crudely protected by plastic sheeting, though the mauled chandelier had been lowered to prevent it falling on a passerby. In its place, someone had set up powerful flood lamps on the landing above, spreading a cold light, at odds with the room's rich furnishings. Save one figure those were deserted and, waving a greeting, the fratello moved to where Fausto Martinello lounged in a comfortable armchair by the wall, presumably carried down from the offices upstairs.

It was the cyborg who spoke first. "Hello Fausto."

Rising from his seat, the burly SRT commando looked down at his small addressor, tone becoming strangely reverent from its usual curse-laden vocabulary. "Good afternoon, Miss. Triela…" his eyes moved to the handler, "…Hilshire."

Placing his burden down, the handler fished in a pocket for his car keys. "Good afternoon. Giorgio sends his regards and a gift. Where is Carlos?"

Kneeling, the other man quickly had one of the cases open, lifting a Beretta assault rifle from its depths. "Upstairs, keeping an eye on the geeks."

"Alright." He held out the keys. "There's extra ammunition in the car boot, black 5-series, just down the street. If you want to get that, Triela can keep an eye on things here." Now, he turned to the girl, taking the laptop bag from her hands. "Once he's back, join me upstairs."

"Yes sir."

Placing the rifle away again, Fausto stood, accepting the keys. "Don't worry Ms. Triela, I'll be faster than a speeding bullet."

"And try not to be too obvious either, it's the nylon duffle."

Leaving commando and cyborg behind, Hilshire began his hike upward, shielding eyes from the powerful lamps, unconsciously stepping around the space where one of Triela's victims had lain on his previous visit.

Higher up the damage receded, an effect only spoiled as he came to the top floor, passing the chewed out balustrade and doorway where his charge had put her final assailant down.

Letting fingers run briefly over shattered timber, he stepped into the top floor office.

Inside, Carlos was sat by the sole intact window, half watching the street, attention wavering across the large board table to the room's desk, placed at its far end. Pausing in his contemplation of the world outside, the SRT man gave a brief welcoming wave, which Hilshire returned, before making his way over to where a t-shirted figure sat, out of place in opulent surrounds. However, before the handler could speak, that other held up a finger.

"Hold on, one second."

Finishing what he was typing into a bulky laptop, the man hit 'enter', movement giving a sense of finality, then pulled a face.

"Damn." Swinging the large leather desk chair around, he looked toward his visitor. "Yes, can I help you?"

Stepping forward, the detective held out a hand. "Victor Hilshire, from Section Two."

Grasping the proffered paw, his opposite shook it, standing as he did, and realisation dawned that the seemingly boyish face belonged to someone a good ten or so centimetres taller than himself.

"Ah, yes, we talked on the phone. Raffele Bollai, part of Section One's cyber..." a slightly disgusted expression, "...warfare team. I presume you're here to look over my shoulder?"

"I am here to look over what data you have retrieved so far."

"That's okay, we all have a job to do." Now, Raffele glanced around the room, mobile features becoming those of contemplation. "Umm... I'm pretty much using up the boss's desk at the moment, but you can probably set up on the table."

Nodding agreement, the handler started to unpack, one eye remaining on the hacker: not quite what he had been expecting.

"So how has breaking into their system been progressing?"

"Slowly. Whoever put together their network and databases knew what they were about. They're using an SQL setup, so I was toying there, but have not got far: someone has done a very good job cleaning out any vulnerabilities. That those users left alive have not exactly come scuttling back to work is also hindering things."

"We did not have much choice in our approach."

"I wasn't saying you did, but I _am_ saying shooting the place up has made my life difficult: you can't exactly social engineer a corpse, and the media coverage sort of torpedoes ringing their helpdesk."

Tapping a finger on the table, Hilshire thought quickly. He didn't really have the time to take on more workload but...

"I could put a call out and see if we can track down any of the escapees."

"That might help." Raffele paused. "On the upside, this crowd were running an un-patched NAS as backup for their company-wide files, so that has made things a bit easier."

Setting his laptop booting, Hilshire looked across at his new counterpart. "Meaning?"

"Meaning _that_ was much easier to break into."

Another silence.

"I thought you said whoever set up the network knew what they were doing?"

That got a wry grin. "I did, but that doesn't mean whoever was administrating it after could tell their arse from their elbow. Sadly though there was nothing to help us along elsewhere on it."

At that moment, Triela walked through the door, shotgun case slung over one shoulder, and the hacker's eyes swung toward her.

"Raffele, this is Triela." Turning to his charge, the handler gestured toward the new introduction. "Triela, this is Raffele Bollai. He's helping to pull data out of the system here."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bollai."

"And you."

There was only the minutest hesitation, barely a flicker as he reached for the girl's proffered hand, but the detective had seen enough interactions with cyborgs to pick it. Looking for a way to keep things moving, Hilshire spoke again. "Where are the rest of your team? I thought Section One sent three."

"We do have three, but Pepe is out finding lunch, and Theresa is working down in one of the second floor offices."

"You're not in here to combine notes?"

"People are all different, Mr. Hilshire and, as I said, all the users are now corpses or vanished. However, working in someone's office helps a bit, traces they've left behind can substitute somewhat for an actual conversation. It lets us get inside their mind, and have some idea of how they might be generating passwords, for example. Right now we're working through mapping the network to help with accessing personal accounts. Of course, we don't know what other security measures are in place yet, or if there are any backups stored offsite, so until then we're going slow to minimise chances of accidentally bricking the whole system."

"It is not exactly like in movies is it?"

That drew another wry expression. "Strangely most things aren't." Picking up a hard drive from the desk, Raffele held it out. "I've put what we found up to last night on this if you want to start going through."

"And what you have found today?"

"If we get anything, you'll be the first to know."

Laptop now booted, Hilshire logged on, a guest user account given to him by the technology department, and plugged in the proffered drive. Opening it, he ran an eye over what was there, and sighed: the Section One people may not think they had found much, but sifting through even this was going to take more time than anticipated. Opening up an Access database of accounts, he sat back to wait for that to load.

From the desk, typing again ceased. "So what are you actually chasing here?"

Catching the hacker's words, Hilshire paused. "What makes you think I am after particular information?"

"Normally when we're pulling networks apart post-mortem it's just clean-up work: people sift through the data dump to see if there are any leftovers worth keeping, which makes me wonder what is so urgent this time? If we knew we could probably start targeting the appropriate accounts."

A momentary silence. Seemingly that was something else the movies had lied about: the hacker caught up in code and data, divorced from the world outside.

"Sorry, but I cannot answer that."

"You realise that we're technically on the same team right? And, at this particular moment, I work for Section Two."

Now that was an interesting thing to say, and the handler grimaced. "I know, but I cannot answer, orders from on high."

_Well, not technically, but the result of a general consensus._

The reply was a shrug. "Whatever. We'll find what you're looking for eventually, we just may not find it _first_."

Turning back to his own computer, the detective scanned through what had appeared: not his area or expertise really but, working slowly, he started setting the window up to display a general overview of account activity.

What he was looking for... even he was not entirely certain what he was looking for, only that he would know when he saw it. More to the point, he was here to make sure Section One did not get that data first without his knowledge.

Database now arranged, he began scrolling through, carefully suppressing a growing smile. Whoever administered this may have not been completely up to date with their security, but they were incredibly organised: deposits, investments, withdrawals... communications by clients. It was all here. Once Section One made it into individual accounts, or the technology department had deciphered phones enough to retrieve personal records and appointments, matching those up with Vito's movements was going to paint an interesting picture indeed.

That was a phone call he still needed to wait on but, in the meantime...

Opening up a separate spreadsheet, he loaded the dates of the man's visits to both Trieste and France. Perhaps, just perhaps, there would be some correlation there as well, and he could start narrowing down the field.


	8. CH07 New Territories

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

**Chapter 07|New Territories**

Peering from beneath the boat's long bimini cover, Monty let her expression lapse into that of the bored plaything, eyes settling on where their chartered skipper translated rapidly between Jethro and the owner of the dilapidated pontoon they currently moored against. She stifled a wry chuckle at that, 'skipper' was probably too grandiose of a term, rather a local who had been willing to hire his small vessel and services for the day, answer questions, and not ask any in return. However, he seemed to be working out fine so far and, as much as she would have preferred to partake in the present conversation, there was no point in getting too overbearing, not at this moment.

True to his word, Tiger had found Algy's container, squirrelled away on the New Territories' north eastern extremity, the wild buffer between Hong Kong and mainland China. Here, verdant green hills rose out of calm waters and, beneath their shadow, those who could eked out a living from ramshackle fish farms, anchored in protected coves around Sam Mun Tsai, a world away from the frenetic financial bustle barely twelve miles distant.

Behind the talking group, the reason for their visit now rested, steel bulk causing the pontoon to list alarmingly, not that the owner seemed to mind: probably a fair trade for its security offered over the floating village's indigenous tarpaulin and tin structures.

Now, as she watched, the discussion broke up, and Monty shuffled across peeling paint toward her craft's seaward gunwale, not too far, but leaving space for their guide to clamber aft along weathered planks set just above the hull's plywood skin. Forward, her partner untied the painter, stepping down into the prow, using his momentum to push clear of the farm pontoon, outboard starting up behind as he did.

Boat peeling away, the cyborg waited for Jethro to neatly loop the rope over its cleat, and cocked an eyebrow in question as he settled onto the bench beside her.

His reply was a shrug. "According to the owner, he found it on the mud flats up past Three Fathoms Cove."

"And it was empty?"

"Apparently."

"So we're back to square one again."

"Maybe."

The brow stayed where it was, but brought no further response, and the girl turned her attention forward as they edged free of densely packed farms. Clear of that obstacle, the boat's motor took on a more urgent note, thrusting it forward and up onto the plane, racing across calm, tropical water, kicking salt spray into already humid air which beat across their faces.

Rounding the cape to head back down the peninsula's seaward side, a call turned Monty's attention aft, where their guide was gesturing out across the expanse of Tolo Harbour, past isolated mooring dolphins, toward where more raggedy pontoons floated before green slopes on the far shore.

"Three Fathoms Cove, your box next out!"

There was a slight pause, before her partner shouted back. "Has there been any traffic through lately! Anything unusual!"

That got a shrug. "Always traffic, go up to Yantian or down Hong Kong! Barge..." he thumped the wood hull hard, before gesturing out to the offshore berth, "...little boat, or big ship!"

"Right!" Turning back forward now, Monty felt herself pulled in against Jethro's side as he continued at a lower volume. "Well, that gives us something at least: if the container wound up there, the press has probably been moved onto some sort of vessel... probably a barge to get the draft."

"They couldn't have just dumped the container and it floated there?"

That got a shake of the head. "Doubt it. At sea maybe, but in here there's too much risk of causing a collision and someone looking closer. Best guess is they probably shoved it up on the mud flats and hoped it would quietly rust away."

Ahead now, almost invisible through hanging humidity, the outline of Tai Po's buildings could be seen, embracing the harbour's far western extremity, and the girl nodded toward it. "I don't know if there is anywhere here you _could_ quietly outload a container."

"Might not have originated locally, it could well have been just a quiet spot to moor up and do the transfer."

"In which case we need to know what has visited Tolo Harbour." She paused, before gesturing toward where the offshore berth was disappearing slowly astern. "That looks like a fuelling or bulk liquid loading station."

"Could be fresh water too."

"Could be. Either way it must have some sort of camera system installed, which should cover us for this end. I'll check the satellite photos again, but there was a harbour defence or containment boom across the channel entrance, its monitoring station may have something we can use as well."

"If it does, that's going to be an awful lot of data to sift through."

"If you have a better idea, I would love to hear it."

No response.

Pulling back from Jethro's side to let cooling air blow between them once more, she instead let his hand cover hers, running through a mental checklist. Finding out who operated those moorings shouldn't be too difficult, the boom however... it would be helpful if she knew what it was for. They would have to ask around, but not of their current guide, he had fielded enough questions already.

Frankly, this whole Hong Kong exercise was starting to take too long for comfort.

Motoring farther down the exposed shore, Sam Mun Tsai Village crept into view. Behind its seawall, rustic buildings were propped up on tall piles, dwarfed by terraced town houses at the break water's far end, somewhat amusingly named 'The Beverly Hills'. She gave a derisive snort at that, overpriced homes built next to agricultural poverty... well, people were free to spend their money as they wished. Though why one would want to like _that_, out _here_, was beyond her.

Coming closer under their shadow however, the boat slowed, sinking back into the water as it threaded its way along the flank of more creaking fish farms, before edging into the harbour proper. Ignoring those decrepit installations, she let eyes wander down from the gated mansions, following a green roofed minibus as it transited the intervening causeway, toward the village stop. If they hurried they might just be able to...

She halted, focusing in on a figure standing at the road's edge, a pair of binoculars trained out toward them. From here it was still too far off to be clear, even for cyborg senses but, careful to keep movements small, she spoke softly.

"Don't look now, but I believe we're being watched."

"One of the Orchid?"

"Can't tell, don't think so." She paused. "I'll hold off checking until we reach shore, the moment I do they're going to know they're spotted."

That was not a long wait and, moving toward the bow, her partner collected his neatly stowed rope, pausing as their vessel nosed in amongst its brethren at a communal pier, before stepping up onto the rickety wooden structure to tie off. Making her own way the opposite direction, Monty released her grip on the bimini frame, extracting a wallet from her yellow romper's pocket to count out a pre-arranged fee, before shaking hands. Releasing the boat owner again, she pointed to where a set of rubber-coated binoculars rested on the seat beside him, neck strap looped around a spare cleat.

"May I borrow those?"

Reaching over, he unhooked the strap and held them out. Taking the proffered item, Monty found her watcher again, before lifting powerful lenses to her eyes.

The woman's reaction was almost instantaneous, binoculars being lowered to reveal a strongly featured Eurasian face, black hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and she started to move along the causeway, back toward the village.

"Thank you."

Handing her own set of optics back, the young agent hurried to the prow, allowing Jethro to help her also onto the landing stage, burning what she had seen into her mind.

"It's Mary..." Turning, she began to stride briskly toward shore, handler keeping pace beside. "...if we move quickly we can probably intercept her before she makes the village proper."

_Don't run, can't cause a scene._

It was going to be a close thing though. The SIS agent had probably been near equidistant to where this waterfront street rose to intersect the main road. Striding along its cracked concrete, she looked up, just in time to see their quarry arrive at the terminus above, village church spire towering over a waiting minibus, the same one as had passed before. Pausing, Mary's gaze dropped toward the closing fratello and, seeming to make up her mind, stepped aboard just as doors slapped shut.

_Now_ Monty ran, dashing up stairs to crest the embankment, but too late, the Toyota Coaster pulling away as she arrived, handler beside her.

"Bollocks."

Pausing, she looked around, but Jethro was already clutching her elbow, hustling across the road to where a short line of green New Territories cabs waited before church gates, waving frantically at the lead car as he did. Bundling herself into the rear, Monty slid across the seat as her partner slammed the door behind them, peering around its driver's backrest.

"The bus that just left? Follow it, please."

Nothing and, turning, the cabbie gave a confused shrug and shake of the head. "Where you go?"

_Cream minibus, green roof; from here that made it a rail feeder route._

Nudging her handler out of the way, Monty leaned forward instead. "Tai Po Market Station."

_That_ got a response and, turning on the metre, their driver paused before, with infuriating slowness, hauling the car into gear and idling out through a cautious u-turn, trundling off in the departed Mary's wake.

_Presuming Zhang still had someone in pursuit also, the taxis were going to do well out of them today._

That thought brought a wry smile and, rolling onto the causeway, she caught sight of the bus's cream form, just beginning to amble along The Beverly Hills' tall, security fenced, frontage. That lead was not maintained for long however and, as it pulled to the roadside to pick up passengers, the young agent leaned forward again, hand waving in their driver's peripheral vision.

"Slow, slow." Now, she pointed to the halted vehicle, palm flat. "Follow."

Reaching once more into her wallet, she extracted a five hundred dollar note, holding it out. "Follow."

Now understanding dawned and, taking her proffered payment, the driver doused the meter, slowing to a crawl as their mark's vehicle pulled back onto weathered tarmac.

Reclining in her seat again, Monty shifted position such that she could watch who boarded or alighted from the Toyota ahead. No point in skulking around now, Mary knew they were here, now it was just waiting to see what she did about it. On sweaty vinyl beside, Jethro's hand closed atop hers, giving it a squeeze, and she shot him a small smile, before bringing her attention back to the current subject as its stop-start route continued, along the harbour edge, curving south into Tai Po itself.

As they turned off the main road from Sam Mun Tsai to follow a narrow river inlet, she felt Jethro lean down, speaking quietly. "Don't know if you've noticed, but we've another taxi behind."

"One of Zhang's?"

"I'd say so, they're holding steady distance on us."

That got a pause and, glancing toward her partner again, the girl pulled lips into a thin line, an answer all of itself. Not exactly subtle of their tail, not that _they _were being particularly so either but...

"It's the same pattern we saw from Noodle the other day. Something's changed, and the prospect is not filling me with a great deal of joy."

Another squeeze of her hand. "No, it's spooking me too. So do we keep on, or try and lose them?"

There was a moment as that was considered.

"I think we have to keep on."

"Glad we agree. First sign of trouble though and we _scarper_."

Glancing in the rear vision mirror, Monty made a mental note of the vehicle reflected there, occupants' faces unfortunately unidentifiable under interior shadows, before turning her attention ahead once more as Mary's bus slowed to cut across traffic into the station forecourt.

Well, they would know soon enough who their babysitter today was.

Bus veering right into a covered interchange, their driver pulled up at the taxi rank's tail end and, exiting rapidly, the girl collected her partner to hustle across the road in pursuit. Under wide roofing, passengers were already being disgorged, the fratello's target amongst them, heading with that human tide for a ramp down toward the station's underground entrance. Glancing quickly at her watch, the young agent scowled: that would be right too, nearly rush hour. Hopefully most of the line's traffic would be headed _out _of Hong Kong, but it would still not make life easy, neither in following nor keeping an eye on their own follower.

Turning down the same ramp, she used the opportunity to look back, peering past another arriving bus at their pursuer. John, again... which at least meant she knew who to look out for and how.

Then they were gone, disappearing into the tunnel, Monty's head dropping below those around, and she stifled a sigh. That was the problem with still being a teen: no appreciable height advantage, and her _gweilo_ features meant she still stuck out like a sore thumb to boot. Now however, Jethro's hand pressed into her back, pushing forward through thronging bodies, working toward the station entrance. Apparently he still had eyes on Mary, even if _she_ did not.

Soon the tunnel opened out onto a wide concourse, human tide dissipating into the space, current carrying its bulk toward Oyster Card gates, and John briefly followed that river's course. Out of its flow however, she could see their quarry heading for automatic ticket machines and, as her partner pulled up at an adjoining pay station, the cyborg hung back, edging instead around to try and get a look at the other woman's screen.

Easier said than done, and a slight shuffle blocked her view once more as Mary removed a wallet from loose cargo shorts, extracting a bank note to be inserted before stowing it again. Retrieving the ticket and change, she backed away, heading for the platform, pointedly ignoring the watching girl.

Jethro was not far behind, and he handed down an adult ticket to his partner as they followed along in their quarry's wake.

"There, that will take you as far as the machine would allow."

As they passed through automated gates, the shape of John detached itself from a nearby shadow, falling in astern as they continued in pursuit of their own, now sauntering, mark, up onto the platform proper. Seemingly Mary had decided losing them here would represent wasted effort, easier to do somewhere farther along the line itself.

Climbing narrow stairs, the British agent came to a halt, and her trailing fratello slipped into a spare gap nearby, amongst the milling crowd.

Sparing another glance out the corner of her eye, Monty caught the shape of Zhang's man as he stared up toward the arrivals board. Extracting a phone from one pocket and placing it to his ear, he blocked the other with a finger as rail announcements cut across chattering commuters in harsh Cantonese, before being repeated in English. Not an unsurprising reaction, little doubt the Second Department captain would want to know who else had shown up to play. What remained now was to see the type of reaction that news garnered.

For that matter, it was going to take some fast thinking on their own part regards how to handle the situation. On one hand, this was the first opportunity presented to meet 'Mary Christmas' on their own terms, rather than her flitting briefly across their paths, and that was a difficult carrot to pass up. However, the question remained as to how much extra taking that interest would inform their Chinese counterparts of.

_Possible answer, if Zhang really already knew the players in their chase: not a lot._

That wasn't a particularly nice thought and, as a squeal of steel protesting against steel approached, she turned that puzzle piece over in her head, waiting to see where it would fall into place.

The arriving train slowed to a halt, and she looked again toward their mark, ensuring she actually boarded and did not dash away from opening carriages. Using the next entrance down, the girl slipped through embarking bodies to wedge herself against the opposite entry, giving a sightline down the open car as Jethro took up position to press her against glass, shielding their faces from those nearby.

Doors hissed shut, and she lifted herself up on tippy toes, letting her partner bend down to plant a kiss on pink lips, holding it briefly before disengaging, leaving them nose to nose.

"How long do you think it will take before Mary tries to throw us again?"

Her words were low, and the reply was equally soft, accompanied by a small smile. "Not sure. Were I in her shoes, I would probably wait until we were back in the city proper: more places to run and hide if getting off the platform isn't enough. Of course, we don't know where she's been operating primarily, but I suspect she would try for somewhere more familiar."

"Station H is a ways off the East Rail Line."

"It is, not that it means much. From what we've seen I suspect Mary doesn't stop by often... and, of course, we've got our own spotter to lose as well."

At those words, the cyborg let her eyes flick the other direction, finding the 2PLA agent reflected in advertising Perspex. "I'm going to hazard a guess and say John's boss now knows all his interests are in one place. Question is: how much new does that tell him, how does he react... and consequently, how serious an interest can _we_ afford to take?"

A pause, before her partner replied, slowly, "Depends on just how much information he has already. I think we can safely assume he's aware which characters are involved and, presuming he's pursuing the same goal we are, what they're after. The wild card here is whether Zhang has a handle on how everyone is related."

"To be fair, _we're _still not entirely sure how we're all related." She glanced sideways again. "That does beg asking though: with Mary still in-country, why bother sending us along as well?"

"Any number of reasons, could be she's stalled and needs someone to follow or, much as I hate to admit it, the Circus is not immune to its own variety of factional warfare, and Algy never did get along with Charlie. Could be we're here with the intention of stealing his fire, or it's even plausible we've been wrong all along, that Mary has nothing to do with our own interests, and this is Algy trying to undercut an old competitor."

"Unlikely, we've run into her too many times for coincidence, and remember: the Orchid also had her photo. It's entirely possible she's been shut down and Vauxhall needed someone to take over, in which case though, why not put us directly in contact with the Far East?"

"Again, could be Algy tweaking Charlie's nose."

"_Assuming_ we're all on the same side... and if that's the case, would he really risk your skin over that little? Possibly have both agencies trying to chase us down?" She cocked an eyebrow, giving a doubtful answer to her own rhetorical question. "You said yourself, standard procedure and courtesy dictate Charlie would have been informed: top secret, only the upper echelons. So why not let the communication run both ways? Mary's potentially been put out of the game for still obscured reasons, but probably has usable data, then we turn up..." her voice tailed off for moment, another piece of the puzzle clicking into place, "...and the competition is on us immediately as well."

Her partner stiffened slightly at that. "I still think that leak could have come from anywhere."

"For both of us? Getting our marching orders from different people at different times?"

"We've had a few extra decades practise, but don't underestimate the Chinese."

"I'm not. Precisely the opposite in fact." She paused again, setting words in order. She shouldn't be having to push so hard, but it was her job to ensure no stone was left unturned, even the unpleasant ones, and Monty's eyes narrowed slightly, brow staying up, as she met her handler's gaze, a touch of testiness edging into her voice. "Zhang had Mary's mugshots, as well as yours, _official_ _mugshots,_ and she's been hiding well enough we've not seen her at all. You and I both know we have a fair record at stumbling over her, and you expect me to believe that is all mere coincidence? Or that Algy really did not follow procedure through petty mindedness? Tell me that doesn't seem at least a _little _off to you... Or did he make the call expecting to see _exactly_ this happen? The Chinese already put one agent out of commission, so how quickly would they be able to shut _us_ down?"

"_Of course_ it seems on the nose, but if Algy suspected someone on this end was crooked, then why on earth would he tip them off? That's another argument for him _not _calling, all it would achieve is to hamper our search for the press."

"Who said his interest was in the _press_? Face it: Mary is on that, for all we know it was just bait to lure us in."

"In which case, why would Charlie put his own agent out of commission?"

"Who knows, maybe she found something she should not have. I think _you_ just don't want to believe the indefatigable SIS may not be all Queen and Country at the top, or that your... _father figure_... might be willing to offer us up a sacrificial lambs tracing a leak that high up. We're neatly outside Vauxhall's structure, so sending _us_ narrows the list of suspects to almost nil."

"Oh come on. I'm not so romantic as to believe anyone at Vauxhall doesn't have their own agenda, and you know it."

"So do me a favour and pay the idea a bit more than lip service. Then, take the requisite step back to be sure, and I mean _really_ sure, of where you think people stand, because at some point I may just have to stake your life on that decision, and I don't want to be doing so on anything less than a certainty."

"_Nothing_ we do is a certainty."

"No, but that's never been resultant of any woolliness on _our _end."

Silence and, taking a breath, Monty forced her stony expression to melt into a benign smile as her partner backed away a step, arm moving automatically to wrap across her shoulders as he shuffled to her flank, voice remaining low.

"Be that as it may, the immediate issue is we want to keep tailing Mary, and I think it best to avoid any of Zhang's cronies tagging along. Until we know where everyone stands, the less he has to go on about our interest in her the better."

"I've suddenly the nastiest suspicion he knows more than we do on that front anyway."

Leaning back into her partner's grasp as befitted their charade, the girl's gaze turned to stare out the window opposite, watching as station after station screeched past, train taking on or disgorging passengers as it went. So far her mark had not moved, shuffled left and right to avoid new arrivals, but otherwise remained immobile. That, however, could not last forever and, seeing as her conversation with Jethro appeared well and truly over for the time being, she hauled herself up, shifting to stand instead by one of the carriage's central poles, giving easier access to either door. Momentarily her partner joined her, grasping cool metal also as darkness descended around them, transport rattling its way into Beacon Hill Tunnel.

Next stop: Kowloon.

A quick check confirmed John also remained in place, and she paused at that. Of course if Charlie or someone close to him really were crooked, it threw doubt on to whom their tails belonged as well. For all she knew now, those could be just as easily the SIS keeping an eye on fresh competitors as the Autumn Orchid watching its own turf, or a mix of both. That said, this one had been holding photos of them _and_ Mary, so presumably he was either one of Zhang's, or the SIS were as suspicious their own as they were of everyone else.

Light crept into the carriage once more, fading from afternoon's gold in gathering dusk, and the young agent turned an eye once again to their mark as another platform slid in beside the car.

The key to ascertaining whom John, and thus anyone he had rotated with, worked for, would be discovering where Mary fell in the whole equation.

Which made it all the more critical they not lose her now.

Doors slid shut, and the train started rolling again, Monty finding herself suddenly pressed closer to her handler in the crush of people as they entered city rush hour proper. That was going to make things difficult, and she was once again relying on Jethro to keep her apprised of the situation. If she were Mary, she would want to make a move here, and soon, there could only be one or two stations left. At that thought, eyes flicked up to the board above the door, confirming their next stop as Mong Kok East. So it was that, or try shake them in Hung Hom.

Soon the train was slowing again, and the young agent let her attention wander toward her quarry as doors slid open, passengers flooding out onto the platform beyond, last dregs trickling away to reveal Mary still in place.

Around, the car began to fill again. So, Hung Hom it...

Suddenly, the woman bolted for the door, ducking below head height, melting into the front line of boarding commuters. Jethro had apparently seen it too and, dropping a shoulder, he cut a path through the human tide surging into their space, one hand grasping Monty's to tow her behind. Standing in the open entrance, jostled back and forth by those pouring in, he looked around, and the girl pulled in closer.

"You see her?"

"No, too crowded... for all we know yet she's back in the bloody carriage." He paused, and she felt his eyes swing downward. "I'll stay with the train, you cover the station."

Not bothering to respond, the cyborg ducked into the oncoming swarm, dancing through its torrent toward the exit. Not an ideal plan, not in this new, even more dangerous, climate, but they couldn't afford to have Mary disappear on them again.

The throng was starting to lighten now, those filtering through the main gate given a brief respite, before joining the platform's crush and, ahead, she caught sight of a swaying black ponytail, anchored inches above surrounding heads. That didn't count for much here, but the glimpsed outfit matched also: loose cotton shirt, cargo shorts and light walking boots. Practical, if a little out of place, and she hurried off in pursuit.

The agent was moving quickly however, likely trying to put distance on any tail coming off the platform, and the trailing girl found herself riding the line between moving fast and appearing unusually rushed, long legs striding forward to eat up the interceding gap. She would need to gain all the ground she could too as Mary reached exit gates, taking the opportunity to look back while her ticket was collected.

Monty stifled a wince, nowhere to conceal herself here, and she stepped out farther, own ticket being extracted from a pocket. The less ground her target put on here the better her chances of maintaining contact... and the more options available for the next juggle. No way would the other agent return to wherever she was hiding with a tail still visibly in pursuit, and options to solve that could only be a good thing.

Speaking of tails.

Arriving at the gate herself, Monty was relieved of her single pass and, following her mark's lead, used the opportunity to steal a glance astern. It wasn't much, but faces became familiar over time, and it was enough to pick John's features being carried along in her wake.

Setting off again through clear departure lanes she reacquired Mary, making a beeline for the station exit into Grand Century Plaza, glass fronted shops just visible beyond. Glass was good, glass could be seen through, and it reflected, which added an extra tool to her arsenal. Somewhere though she was also going to need to get rid of John, not just track him and, more worryingly, the longer he stayed with her, the more certain he would become of her intent: two bits of information for the price of one.

_The longer he followed _her_._

Despite adrenaline coursing through her, the girl suppressed a shiver. First the more brazen attitude of their perpetual shadows, and now another break from the norm. Until now, Zhang's cronies had always prioritised trailing Jethro, but here one was, keeping with her instead. That was twice now, two deviations from their previous pattern. Two, of course, could still be coincidence, for all she knew John had decided Mary more likely to have disembarked the train and acted accordingly, but it was still enough to put her on edge. Something was changing, and she was damned if she knew what. She would have to bend Jethro's ear when she got back. Presuming he would _listen_ this time of course.

Ahead, her mark was stepping onto an escalator, momentarily hemmed in to ascend amongst its crush of passengers and, slender frame and apparent youth working to her advantage, the girl gained ground, threading between close pressed riders.

Slipping off the top, she used the shop front ahead to check her tail once more. John was suffering the same predicament Mary had, stuck with the crowd, phone once more pressed against his ear, and another chill ran through her. Third option: Mary and John, whoever they worked for, were also in cahoots. Somehow the other agent had found them to begin with and, for all she knew, she was now being led into a trap...

Ahead, the woman was striding out between stores, onto a raised pedestrian walkway, pushing west across the road below toward clustered, decrepit, high-rises.

_...and Mong Kok, with its crowds and labyrinthine alleys, would be the perfect place to set it._

For now though she had it slightly easier, course cutting a dead straight line above the road and by sprawling high school grounds beyond, pushing against homeward bound commuters. Below, sports fields remained dark, highlighting bright signage ahead in the deepening evening and, taking one more look to reconfirm John's presence, she followed her quarry down stairs and into bustling streets.

The change was almost instant, buffered only by inrushing people toward the station entrance, and then, noise, chaos. In front, Mary was rapidly disappearing into human overflow from packed footpaths, forcing Monty to try and close the gap farther. That was no mean feat however, constant dance to avoid passersby slowing progress, the woman ahead using her height and elbows to forge a route.

A shop window let the girl check on her own pursuer again, phone still to his ear, as Mary disappeared down a side street, packed with open stalls under flashing neon.

If anything, she was losing ground.

Rounding onto the same stretch of tarmac, she was just in time to see the other agent cut down an even narrower passage, between crumbling, faded apartment blocks. That was good, it looked quieter, she might have the chance to close again but, after that... after that she had to find some better solution, or risk falling out of contact completely. If she could get amongst the hanging signs she would have a chance of keeping up, and staying hidden, hopefully without giving too much away.

Eyes raising, a small smile flashed across her lips.

Covering one building front, bamboo scaffold ran off down the same passage, lower levels still devoid of shade cloth protection, revealing the detritus of construction scattered across wooden decking. If that alley were quiet as she hoped, it would give her a chance to rise above the melee.

She had to get there first though.

Pushing forward through evening shoppers, the young spy finally ducked into semi-darkness, just in time to watch her mark disappear out the path's far end, silhouetted briefly against street lighting beyond. She would need to work fast...

The blow came out of nowhere, slamming into her side and sending her staggering. Catching herself, Monty rounded to see John arrive at the alley's entry, phone now gone, joining a smaller figure, her apparent assailant. Peering forward against bright lamps, recognition dawned: Lau, the chauffeur from their first day, cap and gloves now gone, but black suit still intact.

So it _was_ a trap. Too late now though, this was a good ambush point... for anyone other than herself that was. She could leave these two behind here as well.

Taking another pace back, the girl turned, running one step to leap upward, grabbing at bamboo framing. Not too powerful, not like a cyborg...

A hand closed around her ankle to haul back down, reaching fingers sliding by timber just above, safety snatched beyond her grasp. Landing awkwardly on one leg, she used the momentum to twist free, tumbling back into a fighting stance and retreating another pace, eyes darting around the area. The chauffeur must have moved fast, very fast. No time to grab her pistol then, and not much to work with: a few small stores, closed and with their merchandise locked in cages, another stack of bamboo behind her, traffic cones marking its extremities.

She needed to get clear. Keep them talking.

Backing away another step, Monty turned her attention to the closer man, Lau, cocking an eyebrow, voice carefully deadpan. "Not so polite now, I take it."

The answer was a small, wintry, smile. "Not so polite, no."

"Why? Did I do something wrong?"

Another cautious step back.

"Nothing in you control, but we see you have other follower. No advantage in sharing, so we bring you in now to... talk."

"Could be a rather single sided conversation." The cocked eyebrow remained but, behind it, her mind went into overdrive: so, Zhang was indeed after the press, and Mary, by that at least, was not in cahoots with them, which meant...

Thoughts for other times. Lau was speaking again.

"At start maybe, but you join in soon enough."

"Patience is not one of your boss's virtues, I presume."

Still finishing her sentence, the cyborg shuffled one more pace rearwards, bringing her next to the stack of bamboo. That would do it.

Face not changing, she suddenly ducked sideways, whipping a traffic cone toward her assailants. Continuing the pirouette, fingers clutched around a long pole, sending it also skimming their direction endways. That was enough to complete the turn, just in time to see Lau arc around the projectile's path, charging in from her flank. Another length of bamboo was thrust forward to block his advance and he slammed into it, inertia doing its job, and Monty lifted, pushing hard to send him sprawling against the opposite wall.

That was all she needed.

Farther back, John was already righting himself, having seemingly caught a previous missile.

Forget Mary, she was gone. Just get away, and fast.

Leaping up, the girl grabbed scaffold above, this time scrambling onto rough wooden planks running its length. Hauling herself upright, she managed two steps before timber beneath her feet jerked forward, throwing her balance as the whole thing tilted sickeningly. Lightning fast reflexes were only just enough to send her sprawling across its neighbour as the far end crashed to the street below, vibrations trembling up through the structure, setting hanging concrete pails rattling.

Crawling upright, she could see John, starting to ascend the impromptu access. If John was there though...

Monty looked up, just in time to see Lau's inbound foot and, connecting with her chin, it sent her tumbling backward to land again on her rear. Not slowing, the Chinese agent continued to advance, swinging around to deliver another kick, and she reached up, fingers closing on the first object they encountered, bringing the bucket frantically through to intercept his shoe with a resounding clang. The impact was enough to force the handle out of her grasp, both hands disappearing inside its steel shell to parry another kick, and another.

John's head was visible now, appearing by her hip and, deflecting the flurry's next blow, the cyborg's fists continued their arc, dented metal ploughing into his temple and sending him tumbling to the ground below, not moving, her improvised shield following behind.

Good, now she only had one to deal with.

In front, Lau's eyes also followed his colleague's descent, but only for a moment, before closing with renewed fury, leather soled heel slamming down between Monty's suddenly split legs. That was opening enough for her however. Both hands clamped around the presented ankle, lifting and twisting to send its owner staggering back, buying enough space to return to her feet while the chauffeur righted himself.

Steady again, the Chinese agent set hard eyes on her. "Your boyfriend not even SIS anymore, nothing to gain here, and this _our _city now. Why you bother fight? Why not leave?"

"Reasons."

Conversation over, and her opponent darted forward once more. The first blow she dodged, twisting and leaning back to let it slide past her chest, right into the path of the second as it connected hard in her side. For any normal human that would have meant broken ribs, or worse. Even then it was still enough to send her reeling again, barely maintaining balance on her precarious perch, remembering to let out a grunt of pain... not difficult with the wind knocked out of one. Lau might be small, but he hit like a freight train.

Gulping down another breath, the girl continued to gag, making a show of her apparent injury, and she saw the man pull off his jacket, throwing it to one side, along with the tie to leave just white shirt sleeves, cuffs held back by silver upper-arm garters. Taking a moment to straighten the latter, he advanced again and, still keeled over, Monty backed away in kind.

Behind her, the platform widened out on untouched decking, ladder to the next level resting on more rough wooden planks.

Her opponent was closer now, darting in, taking the bait, but she was ready this time, ducking under his first blow to drive an elbow into his ribcage, or at least try to. Suddenly he wasn't there, twisting out of the way with his punch's follow through, trailing knee coming up to send her bouncing back against bamboo poles.

Ricocheting off the trembling structure, Monty landed flat with a thud. She was on the wider section now and, scrabbling forward before Lau could respond, grabbed the single plank he remained atop, lifting and tipping, her opponent crashing from it onto the board previously brought down. By miracle or skill he caught on, scrambling immediately upward, and she dove for the ladder.

She almost made it.

Reaching the top rung its support was torn from under her, and she leapt desperately aside, feeling something crunch in her pocket as she landed heavily against the flooring edge, whipping feet clear as the ladder clattered toward the street.

Keep moving. Get away.

Rolling upright she stepped sideways, onto bamboo poles hanging out over tarmac below. Beginning to climb she felt a hand close around her foot once more and, looking down, found Lau grinning as he began to pull. Her first kick missed, opponent swivelling clear as she shook wildly to try and dislodge him, and she struck again, connecting only with thin air.

No good, he was too low.

Letting go of the scaffold above, Monty dropped, caught leg bending as she came, bringing the other booted foot in range to swing at her assailant's head. Seemingly he had not expected her to slip so soon, and her toe connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling backwards as she slammed awkwardly into the short diagonal member below. Feeling its bindings give under the impact, a hand shot out to grab the upright beside, and she hauled herself back onto more solid decking.

The Chinese agent was getting up too now. She needed an advantage, fast.

Leaning out, she grasped the dislodged diagonal, yanking hard at it. Once, twice... On the third tug, damaged bindings gave way, and she hauled backward, swinging it around to meet Lau's charge. He was ready this time however, ducking under, and it was all she could do to dodge his next strike, dropping to her knees as he skidded by. Turning, she brought the pole up and around to intercept the next attack as his heel came crashing down toward her shoulder.

Bamboo flexed in her hands, twanging under the strain, but he was off balance now, and lifting she sent him staggering backwards. Pushing him away the pole dropped, and Monty lunged forward, ramming it endways into his sternum, sending him crashing through the apartment window behind in a shower of broken glass.

Hurling the improvised weapon after her opponent for good measure, the girl stepped back out into open scaffold, climbing monkey-like up an outer pole, one storey, two, above the first layer of signs, before dropping back onto more wooden decking to glance down. Lau was behind again, coming up after her, but she had distance on him now.

Running down the building's length she swung out its end, once more ascending rapidly on swaying framework, one hand over the other, blocked from view by the bright neon canopy below. Reaching its zenith, she threw herself out across the alley, catching crumbling concrete balustrade opposite, hauling herself onto it, before leaping again and rolling onto the roof.

Safely on level ground now, she ran, bounding across the next gap to hit the far building in a roll, then back up into her loping jog. Not stopping, Monty reached into her pocket, extracting the phone there, and growled. Shattered, its screen a spider's web of cracks and crazing. Useless.

Be that as it may, she had to warn Jethro. She had to find a pay phone, and fast.

* * *

Pushing in through the hotel suite door, Jethro hung a 'do not disturb' sign outside, before letting it shut and setting the dead bolt behind himself. Right now, he would prefer a bit more warning as to who might want to come in, and that combination would at least rule out any law abiding citizens.

Of course, there were other uninvited guests inside the rooms already, the presence of which rather marred an otherwise luxurious, relaxing ambience. However, if Zhang were going to stop pretending his people could not be seen, then there was no reason to continue pretending the fratello's private conversations were, indeed, private.

First things first though and, walking down the short entry corridor, he took its right fork, dropping phone and pistol on the bed before traipsing back to the adjoining bathroom, closing the toilet door behind.

It would be nice to talk freely again, and certainly Monty wouldn't mind.

_Monty._

No joy finding Mary on the train. There were few places to hide in a public rail car, and he had walked those she could have reached prior to arriving at Hung Hom, which meant she must have disembarked at Mong Kok East. Hopefully Monty would be able to tail her back to wherever she was hiding.

Of course, John had left the train with them, which was... different, and more than a little concerning. The change of tactics suggested something was afoot, enough to suddenly wish he had not split the fratello up.

_No, too big of a gamble... but that's not really why you're worried, is it my lad?_

Re-zipping his fly, the handler flushed the toilet, pausing a moment to place its seat back down.

No, that _wasn't_ why he was worried, his partner could take care of herself.

'Partner', when had he started referring to her as such? Too long ago to accurately remember for sure, and now... and now even _he_ was sometimes a bit hazy as to what exactly was meant by it.

He shook himself at that, finishing washing hands before bending down to splash cool water on his face, letting its touch help clear his head. Drying off, he leaned forward again over the 'his' side sink, palms resting on its marble plinth to stare into the mirror.

_So what _do_ you actually mean by that?_

Automatically, eyes flicked sideways to the 'hers' bench top and its meagre display of possessions: Monty's toothbrush, her sparse cosmetics kit, a bottle of Bvlgari perfume, still half full. In the drawer below would be her conditioning pills, disguised as birth control medication in their tightly patterned blister packs.

_Don't get distracted, get back to work._

Sighing, the former British agent withdrew one of the under-sink stools, climbing up on its satin cushion to reach inside an air conditioning vent, extracting the tiny bug planted inside. It wasn't much to look at, a battery, microphone and small transmitter, shrink-wrapped into plastic sleeving. He'd get the lot before destroying them.

Clambering down again, his eyes fell once more on Monty's drawer. Unlike other handlers, he'd never felt required to check on her medication intake, not since their first stint on the road together. No need to, he had faith enough in her... and that was just it wasn't it? He had faith in her. She was competent and astute... intelligent, sharp... mature. He trusted her, and her judgement, probably more so than he had anyone before, and her opinion _mattered_.

So was he really looking at the world through rose coloured glasses? Letting old loyalties get in the way of making a properly cold assessment of the situation? He didn't like to think so but...

_...but at the very least, he probably owed her an apology._

Picking up the little listening device, Jethro walked back through the bedroom, still pensive, missing its king mattress entirely to slip between the dividing wardrobe-cum-kitchenette and entryway, into the lounge. Placing his trophy on light coffee table timber, the spy lifted a couch cushion to retrieve another from beneath, before beginning to ferret around down the heavy, bugged, design book's spine, trying to dislodge the transmitter glued there.

So, do as his partner instructed, take a step back: _could_ it be that Algy was using him to ferret out rot in the Far East Station? He, neither of them in fact, had ever gotten along with Charlie Wilkes, but Monty had a point: like or dislike, Algernon, in contrast to his opposite, was too pragmatic, too shrewd, to allow pettiness in the way of professionalism. Without good reason to avoid that call, as simple procedure or as bait, Charlie would have known they were coming... which meant his next problem was deciding the more likely scenario.

Finally, the concealed bug came free, a welcome distraction from that subsequent puzzle, and he slid it from the book, placing it with its brethren: one more to go, in the bedroom.

Pausing however, he sauntered instead to their small breakfast table, picking up the iPod Touch there, slapping it against his hand in thought. It was entirely useable as a listening device, too usable to ignore, so what to do about it? Destroying hotel property was not really his style; leave that variety of antics to the rock gods and bored heiresses. Feasibly it could simply be wiped, or run out of battery, though that would mean hiding it from the hotel staff, and would make controlling the suite's, well, _everything_, somewhat less convenient.

From the bedroom his phone rang and, iPod still in hand, he walked quickly through, picking it up to inspect the screen. The number was not one he recognised and, despite himself, his heart jumped a beat: that had to be Monty, her phone disguising itself as another nearby. Calling though was unusual, if she was calling, it must be urgent...

He didn't get a chance to finish the thought.

A loud bang reverberated through the room, setting the door vibrating in its frame and halting his thumb on its way to answer. That wasn't the kind of hit any human could land on their own, and it was followed by another, setting the wood shaking once more: battering ram.

Silencing and dumping the phone in a pocket, Jethro swept up his gun, diving for the bathroom. Whoever was coming through, it was doubtful he could successfully fight them, and here offered the closest concealment to the exit. Crouched under sinks by the bedroom dividing wall, he picked up the Touch, dousing lights and placed it face down next to him.

Another impact, accompanied by a crack of wood starting to give way. The Upper House was expensive, fit out reflective of that in its solidarity, but it was not going to resist a sustained assault for long. One more hit would probably see to the breaching.

That gave him a little time though.

Reaching up, Jethro slid open the drawer above, feeling around inside to lift out Monty's conditioning medication and jam its skinny box into a pocket. If they wanted to stay, she was going to need it. In fact, even if they wanted to leave, getting out of Hong Kong was likely to be time consuming enough.

Another impact, then crash from the apartment's hall end as whoever was out there finally broke through, followed by torch beams cutting into darkness and pounding feet. Two lights disappeared, probably into the lounge, two remaining to bounce off panoramic glass bedroom windows. One of those went right past, and he could see the shadowy figure silhouetted against its reflection. The other...

A gun fore end appeared above his head, light strapped to its underside and, lifting the Touch, he jammed a thumb down on its screen, flashing every light in the room on to full power and setting the stereo blaring. It wasn't much of a distraction, but it was all he had, and the handler rose, bringing his P230 up to fire point blank into the man before him, rounds missing soft body armour to enter under his jaw.

Continuing his movement, Jethro pushed the corpse away, heaving it at the room's other occupant and charged for the exit, flinging himself low as those in the lounge spun to follow, sending suppressed fire scything across the wall above. Then he was gone, rolling into the hallway, out of their line of sight.

First order of business: get out of this bloody bullet chute.

Racing for the closest fire door, still open, he crashed through, shouts echoing across the stairwell beyond as he thundered downward. His assailants would not be far behind and, hitting the next landing, the spy burst out onto its adjoining floor. That would keep him out of their crosshairs for a few more seconds, and he sprinted away, back toward the hotel's central atrium, the core from which lines of rooms radiated.

Skidding around the corridor end, he made for the next spoke as more shouting erupted to his rear. No shots though, even the Chinese Military would have to watch their fire now and, while he was no cyborg, he was going to move faster than they could in full kit... whatever aspersions Ferro might care to cast upon his fitness.

The next fire escape gave him three more storeys before boots, smashing through the door above, forced another exit, tumbling out into more pristine corridor as the first round zinged off concrete by his feet. Only one more to go and he would be at the atrium's base. From there... who knew, the building below belonged to someone else, sealed off from the hotel, so once in a stairwell he would have to somehow fight his way down the remaining thirty-eight levels. Not an attractive prospect.

He could see the atrium's floor ahead now, water feature and all and, on the opposite wall, a storey below, lift doors were opening, one of the staff ushering a family of new guests out. A lift would solve so many problems, bar the minor one of getting down to it in time.

The balcony rail was approaching fast, and he probably still had a few spare seconds.

Well, it wasn't like he'd ever be welcome back here again anyway... pity.

Reaching the balustrade he slowed, clambering over. A little higher than he would have liked, perhaps if he...

There was a shout, and he glanced around to see the three remaining commandos charging into the corridor, submachine guns raised.

_Too late._

Leaping out the handler dropped, landing with an almighty splash in the shallow pool below, sending a tidal wave of water arcing ahead as he rolled to absorb the impact, drowning out the new arrivals' shocked shrieks. Then he was up again, legs lifted high out of the dragging pond until, encountering dry land once more, he charged forward as a fresh clutch of bullets slammed into the floor behind retreating heels.

The lift doors were closing now, and this time it was the concierge's turn to shout as the soaked man shoved him aside, squeezing through just as they slammed shut. Turning, Jethro hammered the lobby button, before slumping onto carpet in the middle of a growing puddle.

_Monty, he had to warn Monty._

Digging in a pocket he extracted his phone, and swore: blank, drowned by the architecture. Resisting an urge to throw it across the car in frustration, the spy instead slipped it back into his sodden suit, too much data on there to leave lying around.

The lift counter didn't move for levels the hotel didn't own, but the lobby had to be arriving soon. Standing, he checked his pistol and partner's medication were still firmly secured, the latter's box turning slowly to a soggy mush. Plan from here: get out, then find a pay phone and change of clothes, whichever came first. Going out the front would draw too much attention, again, so make for a back exit.

The lift dinged, doors sliding open to reveal another waiting party of arrivals, their expressions melting into horror as his appearance registered. Straightening his tie, Jethro sauntered past, sparing a bland look for disbelieving faces.

"Water feature wetness inspection, carry on."

Squelching off down a side passage, he ensured he was out of sight, then hightailed for the nearest fire exit. Problem was, he now didn't know where, presumably Zhang's, men were and, reaching the door, he slowed, listening hard. Nothing audible from its far side, but the material was thick and, cautiously, he edged it ajar, just slightly, enough to glimpse the red extinguisher beyond, hung on the wall for easy access.

Suddenly, bouncing from concrete walls, came the clack of a firearm being raised, and he rammed the panel open, slamming it into the man behind's gun, knocking its barrel sideways. The commando was quick though, pivoting with the blow, bringing his weapon back to bear, and the handler continued his charge, ducking under the barrel to sweep it up, shots climbing and echoing behind as he forced its owner back against steel stairwell railing. Wrestling forward, he got a hand up to the bullpup's stock, dropping its magazine free and hurling it away.

This close his opponent's stature was visibly smaller and, pressing his advantage, the SWA agent kept pushing, bending him farther backward over the rail as the man fought to stay grounded.

The punch landed in his stomach like a hammer, springing gripping fingers open, doubling him over, and his victim leapt forward, immediately landing a second hit, forcing the spy back into striking distance for a powerful kick which sent him sprawling across ascending steps.

Coughing, Jethro rolled over to find his assailant fumbling for a fresh magazine. No time, and rising, he collected the fire extinguisher, tearing its pin out on the way.

The magazine seated home, submachine gun coming up, and Jethro clamped the extinguisher trigger closed. White powder erupted from its nozzle, saturating the airspace to blank his opponent from view, and he ducked sideways, charging forward as fire scythed blindly through where he had stood. Still nothing visible and, cutting back toward where those shots had come from he rose again, swinging the heavy tank hard, cricket style. Somewhere in that cloud, climbing metal met flesh, accompanied by a scream of pain, cut off as its utterer tumbled backward, bouncing away to the crunch of shattering bone.

Emerging beneath the powder cloud, gun once more in hand, he found the Autumn Orchid's man slumped on the next landing, back to hard concrete, jaw dangling and leg bent far askew. Crouching beside, the handler checked for a pulse. It was there, but weak... out cold, no threat.

No time to search the body either and, standing, he dumped his improvised weapon in the unconscious commando's lap for good measure, before racing downward again.

Pushing the ground level fire exit ajar, Jethro looked around cautiously, scanning wide roadway outside as it swept down toward the bay. It looked clear, for now and, stepping out, he sauntered casually toward the kerb, one hand up to hail a taxi as it rolled down patched tarmac. Seeing it start to slow, he lowered the arm, brushing at its sleeve, fingers coming away coated in caked on powder: the muddy lovechild of water and fire retardant.

_Pity, he had liked this suit too._

Taxi halting, he opened a rear door, sliding into the seat and hauling it shut before the driver could object to his appearance.

"Wan Chai, please, and..."

His pistol was out before he had even consciously thought about the movement, held low to aim at the cabbie through her seatback.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Turning slowly from behind the wheel, 'Mary Christmas' made a calming gesture, hands held up slightly to show they were empty, speaking carefully. "_Steady._.. we're on the same side this time around, Mr. Blacker. Your girlfriend found trouble in Mong Kok, I thought you might too."

His eyes narrowed. "And you didn't help her?"

"Couldn't, not with the Chinese so close."

The agent's mind raced, grip tightening on his little Sig. She had seen Monty in strife, and God knew what sort of strife, then abandoned her. That did not do much to endear the woman greatly to him, and he forced down the little voice in the back of his head saying he would have done the same wearing her shoes...

_...and she was at least being honest with him... probably._

That thought he pushed aside. Endeared or no, trustworthy or no, Mary was here, now, and he was already in the cab.

In the distance, he could hear sirens approaching.

"Did she get away?"

"I couldn't tell you. Sorry."

Gun remaining where it was, he nodded slowly, voice still cold, dripping with suspicion. "Alright, I accept your offer. Find me a pay phone."


	9. CH08 Hidden Worlds

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

**Chapter 08|Hidden Worlds**

Street noise echoing from the alley's mouth, Jethro jammed a finger in one ear, phone pressed hard to the other until its ring degenerated into the monotonous beep of a disconnected line.

No joy, _again_.

Calling Monty a second time was pushing his luck, but he was damned if he was not going to try and, pausing for one more cycle, he smacked the receiver back onto its bracket with a growl of frustration.

Taking a juddering breath, he let it out, slowly. Settle down. This wasn't the first time they had been separated, and it was certainly unlikely to be the last.

_But it was the first time that separation had been quite so unexpected, or absolute._

_Get a grip my lad._

Monty was smart, and savvy. If there was even the slightest chance of evading Zhang's clutches she would, and besides, it was not like they were short contingency plans. For all he knew his partner's phone had simply been damaged in her flight, just like his, and there were plenty of reasons she might not answer.

_Which was not actually all that comforting._

One more try. He would need to make it quick though, and he reached for the handset once more.

That he had barely lifted from its cradle however when a voice interrupted him. "Leave it, we need to get back across the harbour before the Chinese recover from missing you."

Phone still raised, the spy turned to where Mary Christmas kept watch at the alley's entrance, peering from darkened depths onto the Wan Chai laneway beyond. She hadn't turned to speak, but her tone suggested this was not a matter up for debate.

"We'll get you a burner on the Kowloon side, and you can call your girlfriend to your heart's content then."

She was right too. Between locating a suitably coin-driven payphone and finding a fresh change of clothes for himself, they had given Zhang far too great of a head start: time already to close off the few means available to cross Victoria Harbour, locking down routes of escape.

A cold twist in the base of his stomach accompanying the motion, Jethro reluctantly replaced the receiver, moving briskly back toward the alley entrance, suit now traded for chinos and a short sleeved, button up shirt, a light blue blazer hiding the shoulder holster salvaged from his previous outfit. Try as he might though, white, corrosive, fire retardant powder still clumped together in dark brown hair, marking him for his recent exploits, an extra identifier atop already distinctive European features.

In that latter regard he was not Robinson Crusoe either.

Approaching his new associate, the spy took a moment to study her, backlit by restaurant windows beyond. Her predicament was not quite so pronounced as his, still tall compared to the local population, but with black hair and exotic eyes which would make her less immediately conspicuous, at least until someone noticed the ice blue irises.

"That might not be an errand I can run, at least for a few days."

Her reply was quick coming. "No, probably not."

Conversation halting there, the pair stepped together onto the narrow street beyond, moving quickly to where their taxi squatted before a small restaurant, hazards strobing against crowds meandering past under dim, yellow lamps. Climbing into vinyl rear seating, he let Mary take the driver's position, that latter speaking as she began to nose the Toyota Crown out through pressing bodies.

"I'm using a safe house in Mong Kok. It might be best if you lay low there."

Jethro's eyes narrowed. "Safe for you? Or safe for me as well?"

"For both of us, I meant it when I said we're on the same side this time, whether you believe me or not... though I'm sure you've worked out I'm not exactly helping on the pure goodness of my heart."

"I would be more worried if you claimed otherwise."

"If it helps any, this particular apartment does _not _belong to Station H."

Pausing, he let eyes rest on the driver, evaluating her statement. That sounded like bait being trolled before the fish's nose. Two could play that game though, and he stifled a snort as he contemplated his next words: good thing Monty was not here, he'd never hear the end of it. "It might a little, I'm not entirely sure how far I trust the local office right now."

In the rear view mirror, he saw Mary glance toward him. "Smart man."

"A private setup then?"

"Of sorts... provided courtesy of Panama."

Another halt, half a heartbeat's silence.

"Is that so?"

"It is."

The conversation tailed off again, and the spy found himself once more studying the back of the British agent's head: sounded like Algy had more than one finger in this particular pie. That involvement, if true, made him feel slightly better... but it also opened up a whole new can of worms regarding the Hong Kong branch's position.

_Monty may have been on the money after all._

At that thought the sickening, sinking, feeling made its presence recognised again. If he were honest, even had Mary been setting him up, he would still have used her to get across the water and back to Mong Kok. A poor choice, but public transport was far too risky, too easily monitored, and the longer he waited the more eyes would be available to watch it. The taxi kept him obscured from those, enough that Zhang may even believe him still seconded on Hong Kong Island. That would have been a fine option too, except Monty most likely remained on the mainland.

She would be okay, he just needed to locate her and, were he to manage that, Mong Kok was the place to start. The question was where he went after arriving.

That thought brought another sick turn of his stomach, not a sensation he was enjoying.

_Careful: one bridge at a time._

It was a new one though. People came and went, often in much worse circumstances than this, and few had been missed once gone. Certainly none had left such a hole in his world with their absence, one the very thought of which set him on edge.

Settle down, think through it, find a starting point. He could get Mary to show him where his girl had been last sighted... but he couldn't very well go wandering around the streets, not just yet. That would take time. Not a useful answer then, not one that doused the gut churning coldness, nor banished its accompanying sensation of rising despair. That he had to keep a lid on, letting it get the better of him helped no-one.

_But nor did sitting on his hands._

"Hey, are you listening?"

Mary's words interrupted his thoughts.

"Sorry, say again?"

"I said: I'll need what you have on the Italians' forging operation. I can't use you to do legwork anymore, so we had better pool resources and knowledge... unless of course you'd prefer the Chinese get a free run on US currency."

"Vesper's the better informed on that, my phone's had it, and her memory is younger."

Outside, buildings disappeared, traffic noise roaring in to fill the vacant sensory gap as they descended into one of the cross-harbour tunnels, and his current companion gave a derisive snort.

"I'm not going to ask how _much_ younger, but I also suspect your memory isn't _that_ bad either. This had best not be a ploy so I will go search for your girlfriend."

"Hardly, give me a_ bit_ of credit."

"I'm trying, but this is not Jethro Blacker as I was told to look for him. _That_ Jethro Blacker was detached enough to wave a woman goodbye once she outlived her usefulness, maybe hang around long enough for the body bag to be carried away, if she were particularly lucky."

Beginning a retort, the handler paused, words dying in his mouth, and he changed tack.

"Then perhaps she's still useful."

No response, and Jethro turned his head to stare unseeingly out the window as the truth of what he had been about to say sunk in. Love was not an emotion going to find a comfortable outlet, and certainly not here, but the realisation of its presence also brought with it a strange kind of calm. Now he had a source for his unfamiliar worry, the twisting, sick sensation still there, but muted by a tangible cause for its existing.

_Of course, that realisation brought its own, new, form of discomfiture._

That he trod heavily on, burying it deep, a problem for another time, his attention returning to the original puzzle. Having the cause was one thing, deciding how to resolve its symptom was another entirely. Mary was right, for the next few days he would not really be able to travel, and nor would her own movements be particularly free. Pre-arranged contingencies were all very well, but physical meeting points and dead drops required some level of mobility.

The first step then was making himself himself contactable, which meant acquiring a phone, and then trying to get through to Monty again. It was unlikely she had drowned hers like he had managed and, even if it was out of action, at the very least missed calls would give her a number to ring when she finally could, and there were options with the internet as well, should he get the chance.

The spy pushed those thoughts aside, attention returning to the outside world, taking in crowded Mong Kok tarmac under a fresh forest of bright signage. He had a plan now, something to do, no matter how minimal and, turning down a narrow street lined with tightly packed shops and restaurants, Mary brought their taxi to a squeaking halt.

Twisting in the driver's seat, the woman held out a pair of keys, motioning with her other hand toward a skinny entry, wedged between two shops, glass doors enclosing a space barely larger than the elevator at its end. "In there, room forty-two. I'll ditch this and join you. Was there anything you needed urgently?"

"Excepting a shower and gun cleaning kit? Not immediately, not that can't wait until tomorrow."

"Good, those I have already."

Checking his surrounds, Jethro let himself out into the milling throng, glancing back to see the red and silver cab crawl away as he moved quickly toward the apartment block's front doors. Twisting a corroded lock to swing back barred glazing, he called the lift, one careful eye remaining on the street reflected in its facia. No point in sending Mary out more than necessary, more exposure was the last thing any of them needed.

Tomorrow though, he could start searching... in earnest.

* * *

Seated beneath towering walls of phone cases and other assorted accessories, Monty let her attention wander across crowds passing before this dingy shop's open doorway. In the deep gloom at its rear she would be all but invisible to those streaming through bright sunlight outside, nestled in the gap between its back wall and counter. Behind that latter, between her and the public, the shop's proprietor busied himself over her mobile, a fresh screen being affixed to its faceplate, ruined predecessor dumped on the glass bench top, beside sheared cables and broken sensors, smashed taking the full brunt of her previous night's fall.

One thing about Hong Kong in general, and Mong Kok in particular: it was easy to get technology seen too, and seen too _cheaply_. That latter was no small concern either and, extracting her wallet, the girl dourly inspected its meagre contents. Normally well stocked, bribes, fees, and taxi fares of the previous day had depleted her cash reserves badly... and she dared not use a credit card or ATM.

Some problems could be solved without of course, her slender frame near enough the local standard that the beginnings of a new outfit had overnight been procured from rooftop and balcony washing lines: a loose, shear, sleeveless yellow blouse, and white shorts, forming a base to work from. Actual funds had needed to be spent on shoes however, as well as an engineer's cap and large sunglasses, white plastic frames and dark lenses helping obscure her western features. As a disguise it wasn't much, but it might be just enough to stymie casual identification, buying precious seconds to disappear.

Closing the wallet again, she slipped it away, stifling a yawn in the process. Of course, the downside of her thrifty, nocturnal, excursion meant sleep fell by the wayside... and she dared not buy a coffee until more pressing expenses had been met.

_With the general quality of coffee found in Hong Kong so far though, she was at least not missing out on much._

But coffee was still coffee, and even she could not operate exhausted forever.

Unfortunately, repair money was also money in need of spending were she to harbour any designs on locating Jethro, and thus had to come first. Pay phones had brought no luck, his mobile returning out of range, in which case her next best chance was to ensure he could contact her given an opportunity. If he were still at large he certainly would, and even if he were not he would certainly try...

_...and in that case, her next move was to liberate him as soon as physically possible._

Get him back, keep him safe, keep operating like he was free, check dead drops and run those contingency plans she could, make herself contactable; but work like he _wasn't_, keep searching, get herself in a position to find and extricate him from whatever bind necessary. Even if he had evaded Zhang she was still likely the more mobile, and she would have to go to him.

No need to rush though, she had time: her small supply of conditioning medication would last a week or so before needing to do something about it, meaning the immediate issue would be not letting his trail go cold. That left the real question as where to begin. Her partner should have been at the hotel by the time she called, so The Upper House would have made the ideal starting point, and even had he been intercepted before then she could work back. Unfortunately, it was on the other side of Victoria Harbour, that simple part of Hong Kong life suddenly a major barrier.

At the counter, the shop's owner had her iPhone's faceplate back together and, as she watched, he plugged it into existing componentry. Fiddling once more with another connector he tapped the home button, brining her unadorned lock screen blazing to life: success.

Seeing that display, Monty breathed a small sigh of relief: one less problem she need deal with. Now she could answer if called, and retained the phone's clandestine capabilities, at least in one direction... not to mention all the data it carried.

Screen still free of its chassis' fixings, the shop owner turned to her. "You want I change battery as well? Have new one, higher capacity."

The girl paused, that would certainly be nice, but...

"How much?"

"Fifteen, fitted."

...but money she could not afford right now, and she shook her head.

"Not this time."

Shrugging, her companion turned back to his task, beginning to secure connections more firmly into place.

Money, forget finding Jethro for a moment, coming up short limited her options to do so and, for that matter, she had no real urge to spend another night unfed, unwashed, and unsheltered either. Money could be organised though, she glanced again to the Mong Kok crowds passing through muggy heat outside, just not here. She needed less savvy targets, which could also be arranged. In fact, going somewhere touristy would probably be a good move, somewhere she stood out less: Tsim Sha Tsui should be rife for it.

_Unfortunately, it did mean she would have to put up with _tourists_, but even they, very occasionally, had their uses._

Behind his counter, the shop's owner tensioned down the iPhone's last fastener and, receiving the device back, Monty checked its renewed display: full signal, that was good, though low on battery, which was less so. Her next grimace came upon presentation of the bill, not expensive by any means, but enough to just about clear out the last of her kitty and, paying up, she stepped back from the counter as the mobile buzzed.

Glancing down her heart jumped slightly. Missed calls, two unknown numbers, no message left... but both the previous night, and both sporting a Hong Kong country code. Those had to be Jethro, a free Jethro: no captor would have bothered taking him from one handset to another.

After that of course, who knew, but it was a start.

Pocketing her phone, the girl merged onto the street, melting into its crowd to be swept along with the current. A few hours around Kowloon's touristy foreshore, then the seafood market at Lei Yue Mun, once people started following their stomachs, should make for good pickings.

_The seafood market, Tiger had a presence there..._

Getting in contact would be a bit of a long shot admittedly, proxy bearing the container's location having found the fratello, not vice versa. However, she had been relying on Jethro's relationship previously and, with no idea how long it would take to find him, she needed to begin forging those connections herself, ASAP.

A grim expression flitted across her face: of course, if she wound up having time to track down Tiger, it was probably fair indication she was very much in need of his help anyway.

That said, as far as she could tell from their interactions to date, Tiger preferred to use people local to an area, those who were part of the landscape, so the messenger could not have travelled far, which at least gave her a rough idea where to start looking. If she found no luck in Lei Yue Mun, there was always the Cantonese barbeque in Wan Chai... though that would again mean crossing the harbour undetected. However, while she had not been part of the interaction there either, if the owner were even half awake she should be remembered.

Both were jobs for later though. For now, a few quiet hours spent in Tsim Sha Tsui should yield her enough income to at least find a meal and, following more shuffling bodies down a narrow backstreet, she headed for the water.

* * *

Above one narrow window, this tiny apartment's aged air conditioner scraped away, some loose internal component adding its light metallic rattle to the boxy contraption's chorus.

Glancing up from the computer and sheaves of paper spread across the kitchen table, Jethro eyed it irritably. It was annoying, really annoying; a disharmonious chord above Hong Kong's native lullaby the previous night, and a continuing irritation now. His sofa bed below remained folded out to fill any space between Mary's room and the table, jamming two chairs against its opposite edge, rendering them unusable. By way of mitigation, one had been moved around to face the wall, offered a less than stunning view of peeling 70's graphical paper in the gap between barred glass panes. It was an imperfect solution, any person there blocking access to a fridge and washing machine pushed up against plaster board behind, divorced from the tiny kitchen bench astern of his own position. That had no room for either, lurid lime green melamine surface dedicated to a sink and two-burner stove, a bathroom of equally Lilliputian dimensions wedged in on the wet wall's other face.

Leaving the rattling appliance, eyes dropped again to grimy glazing, peering through to decrepit buildings beyond, this corner apartment affording a view diagonally down into cluttered streets, albeit one crisscrossed by rusting signs, washing lines, and sagging power cables. All told, Mary's safehouse was not exactly the height of luxury, but then options were limited should an agent want to keep expenses under the bureaucratic radar.

_And he had certainly stayed in worse._

That brought a wry laugh. Here, crammed in among the poor of Sham Shui Po on Mong Kok's north western extremity, what Algy and Mary had pulled together was positively bourgeoisie, despite being barely large enough for one person. How it would be once Monty showed up as well he dreaded to contemplate.

_Monty._

At that thought, he forced his attention back to the computer, screen displaying what SIS information had been made available to him regards the Padania's forging operation. He had been reading diligently too, though whether professionally, or simply as distraction, he was not sure. Some of it was new, most he had seen before, but it was not like he had much else to do. Using the machine to kick off any contingency plans would be dangerous, and who knew what data it would log though, he suspected, in his case the answer would be: all of it.

Still, he couldn't just sit by either and, opening the web browser, he clicked through to a faux telegram site, drafting a message for a Kowloon post office box. That option was at least devoid of human intermediaries to answer prying questions.

_And he was still waiting on the tools to make himself contactable again._

A knock at the door jerked his attention around, heart jumping as it was followed by another, moment of hope quickly quashed as the knocker continued to sound out an all clear signal, just not the all clear he had been hoping for.

Shouldn't have got his hopes up, Monty had no way to find him yet.

_But that didn't mean she couldn't, or wouldn't._

Exiting the browser again, communication remaining unsent, fingers closed instead around his Sig where it sat beside the laptop, freshly cleaned weapon lowering to hang by his flank as he walked over to the entry. Standing to one side he leant over, squinting briefly through the door's low-set peep hole.

Content with the picture its aperture portrayed, the spy stepped back, pistol shifting to his off hand, out of sight, as he drew back the chain and bolt. Finally twisting its handle and hefty deadlock above, he hauled the door just enough ajar to let Mary squeeze through, plastic shopping bags in each hand, pursued by distant sounds of apartment life beyond.

That was quickly muted behind thin wood as the door sealed shut again, and he set about re-securing it, one eye left to track his most recent ally. It was a term applied loosely but, on the surface, their current goals seemingly aligned, which probably meant everyone was playing nice, for the time being at least.

Monty could not get here quickly enough.

Sliding the last bolt home, he turned as Mary removed a compact Glock from inside her waist band, placing the chunky .40 pistol with its holster on the table, before dumping two of her bags unceremoniously on Jethro's bed, others spreading themselves over the table top.

"Those two are for you, apologies if it's not up to your usual sartorial standards."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, thank you." Pulling out clothes to lay them across light sheets - not an exciting collection, t-shirts and slacks, it would have been nice to have at least one suit... though she had apparently managed to find a set of knockoff Wayfarers - he continued. "You didn't get seen?"

"Not likely."

"Just asking."

All the same, he might find somewhere to watch the street for a bit later. Unfortunately, it was Mary's bedroom given the best frontage for that, but he could probably do some good from the kitchen table as well.

Now the other's features softened slightly. "I did spot one of my previous tails, I'm sure if you're chasing the press you'll have met Zhang by now, so one of his, but I ducked away before being noticed."

Nothing particularly surprising there, just confirmation of what he had already suspected. "He's a fun customer isn't he?"

"He is," opening the fridge, Mary began to empty groceries into its meagre depths, "it did mean I had to shy away from one appointment though, so sourcing your ammunition is going to be a mite trickier than expected."

He grimaced at that. The fratello's choice of the small 7.65mm round had been in part driven by its easy civilian availability, even in countries with strict firearms laws. However, buying across a counter as a responsible citizen, and trying to procure it as public enemy number one, were two entirely different stories.

"To be honest, I suspect we'll be seeing more action before this is all over, might be worth picking up something in a local flavour anyway. I don't know how you are on that front, but I have contacts we can use."

"Probably better sourcing through those than Station H... but leave it for a day or two, I don't want to be wandering around much in the near future."

Upturning the second bag assigned to him, Jethro watched as a pair of mobile phones, pursued by matching chargers, fell from it onto the bed's soft surface. Two identical bricks, both devoid of packaging, simple sticky labels denoting their price.

"Are these?"

"Yes."

Picking one up, the handler inspected it closer: basic keypad, writing he could not decipher emblazoned beneath the tiny screen. That didn't matter though, it was a working phone. Hopefully it would be charged.

Pocketing its twin as insurance, he held the remaining device aloft, turning to Mary again. "I'll be nipping out for a bit."

She nodded. "If you turn left from here you can cut across the entire block without ever touching the street, and there's a pedestrian bridge to the next over. It's a bit of a faff, but you can get there entirely above ground."

"Sounds perfect."

"I find it helps, just don't go getting seen and ruin it."

That, he decided, didn't warrant a response. Instead holstering his pistol, the former SIS agent slipped on his shoulder rig, unlined linen blazer following to cover its form. Pausing briefly, he also collected the newly supplied sunglasses, before once more starting to go through the door's sequence of bolts.

The corridor beyond was warm and humid, his forehead immediately beading with sweat in its dank atmosphere. For all its racket, the air conditioner would not likely be rested any time soon. Really it was too hot for the blazer, but he did not have an option there, just as poorly maintained lighting would make sunglasses more hindrance than help. Those were however also slipped on, plunging him into a dingy twilight, obscuring the worst of miss-matched paint and creeping mildew.

Heeding Mary's advice he turned left, frame melting into an antisocial slouch, hands jammed in pockets: don't touch me, don't talk to me. He was going to stick out like dogs bollocks anyway, especially here where few of the wealthy expat class ever set foot, so he might as well give people a reason to avoid him... maybe he should look to buying some cigarettes to complete the effect.

Space was at a premium in this area, buildings butted up against one another to pack as many bodies into as small of a footprint as possible and, true to Mary's word, he was able to move from one to another without glimpsing daylight. Universally poor ventilation kept the blocks' denizens out sight, those he did encounter glancing quickly away as he passed, sleeves now rolled up to give some relief from pressing, muggy, air.

On the upside, it was unlikely this neighbourhood would be topping Zhang's search list and, insofar as he understood it, since Handover control of the internal population fell more under the Ministry of State Security's auspice anyway, rather than China's military. If those two really were engaged in a turf war it should buy him a little leeway, any eyes seeded amongst the public reporting back to someone less directly interested in him.

Or course, if they _were_ talking, he had had it.

As promised, an elevated walkway carried him to the next block, itself a near repeat of that just left. Hopefully the distance would be enough to put his phone onto a different tower and, making his way to its far side, he began to climb.

Doors were packed close along the last building's upper floor corridors, dirt cheap accommodation for one of the world's most affluent cities. On one flank an apartment entry swung ajar, wrenched off its hinges by some powerful force, and Jethro pushed through into the tiny, claustrophobic space beyond... or it would have been claustrophobic, had the previous owner not seemingly knocked out a wall, tacking a balcony of wood and weatherboard onto the ten-by-ten foot floor plan.

Stepping onto that rickety platform presented, the handler felt it creak alarmingly beneath him, a glance down bringing with it the realisation that the courtyard below was also not really a courtyard at all. Instead, low-rise buildings filled the gap, rooves dotted by squatter hovels, left behind in shadow as the city grew up around, the structure on which he stood just one of many similar constructions clinging to surrounding buildings. Inside, evening lights were just starting to come on, sweet scents of tropical damp tinged with ginger and five spice wafting from open windows. Sad, yes, but also not his problem and, closing the balcony door for some privacy, he extracted the phone Mary had bought, pressing the power button to bring its small screen to life.

The battery still indicating at least a quarter charge, he dialled Monty's number, before hesitating, thumb hovering over the call key: what if she didn't pick up, again? What did he do then?

Just get on with it.

Jamming down the button, he lifted the mobile to his ear. One ring, two...

"_Hello?"_

The voice was female, smooth British tones rounded at the edges, and relief flooded through him, taking with it the breath he had not realised he had been holding. Questions crashed through his mind: was she okay? _Where_ was she? He stamped heavily on them, those would need to wait for a later date, and he instead forced his voice into a casual tone.

"Hi luv, I forgot to pick up Tiger Balm from the store while I was out, could you grab some on your way home?"

There was the briefest of pauses, but the reply was quick coming. _"I think I can do that. I'm out and about myself, probably won't be back until six or seven-ish."_

"That's fine, see you then..."

His voice tailed away, sentence's end catching in his throat and, dropping the phone from his ear, Jethro rang off, just managing to avoid ditching it over the precipice as he leaned forward against rusting railing, legs suddenly jelly. Monty was alive, and still free... at least for now. He could almost cry, the release of tension bringing with it an unexpected wave of exhaustion.

No time to enjoy the moment though, he had to get out of here. Turning the mobile off he pried its back away to remove the battery and, making an about face, slunk back into decrepit corridors. Now all he needed do was convince Mary to pinch another taxi.

* * *

Seated beneath a palm on Tsim Sha Tsui Promenade's low garden walls, Monty watched from behind dark glasses as the woman opposite stretched forward, trying to push a phone on the end of its long stick farther away, at the same time goading her family closer in shot before the sunset draped Hong Kong skyline. Two children in souvenir t-shirts, the elder probably just scraping the lower end of her teens, didn't move, their father instead squeezing them together with a sweaty paw, and the young agent gave an internal shake of her head. What induced, presumably fairly normal people, to imitate circus clowns the moment they set foot on foreign soil would forever boggle her, particularly when the place to which they had travelled was a populous centre. Surely in her daily life this woman, for example, did not carry a full-to-bursting rucksack, nor the man his bulging bum bag, wife now sliding that latter around his flabby hip to place the phone inside.

For starters, it made them just such huge targets.

Ushering his family ahead, the man began to wobble down the esplanade, perspiration covering his red face and, letting them get a few steps ahead, Monty closed her book, polishing off a can of energy drink in the process. She didn't much like being here, out in the open and exposed, not right now, and the book was not helping. Still, so long as no-one actually asked what the Chinese title translated to she would be fine, and tourist spots were still the best place to select targets.

This was, however, also not the best place to actually _act_.

Ambling along in her marks' wake as they bustled toward the guide book's next 'must see', the young agent held her distance, letting those others on the harbour front wash between them. In this game, patience was what rewarded. That was okay, she could handle a wait, though she would prefer they got off this broad deck sooner rather than later. The sooner she could make a move, the sooner she could abandon the area completely, and the sooner she could get out of sight once more.

Pickings had been good today, slow, but good, providing opportunity to ensure she remained unobserved between lifts, select targets carefully, and spread out timings and locations. After this one, she should be able to move on to the seafood market with enough cash in hand for a few days actually on the job, rather than raising capital. Not to mention enough for a meal and place to sleep, both of which would be very much appreciated right now.

Eventually the tourist family headed inland, pausing in the Space Museum's shadow to consult a map, before turning up Nathan Road. That was good, Nathan Road was busy, even down this end, mostly the preserve of foreigners and designer shops for the well heeled, and she trailed along, using the growing crowd to edge closer, one eye peeled for faces she might recognise. No rush, there was plenty along Kowloon's main drag where the group could be headed. By the perspiration soaking their clothes and huffing gait of the parents though she doubted it would be one of the farther attractions: the Hong Kong Observatory possibly, St. Andrew's Church, or Kowloon Park... or maybe Haiphong Market. That last would actually play into her hands rather well, even if they were not actually attending and, as glossy shop fronts dissolved into smaller jewellery and electronics stores, she began to close in.

Across the next intersection could be seen park greenery, white mosque turrets towering above, and her marks paused, ignoring locals still swilling through against the crossing's signal to look instead toward darkening skies. Obviously they were heading on, which meant all she needed do now was get the timing right. One last check of her surrounds and, as the light turned green, she stepped forward, pocket knife appearing in nimble fingers. Sharp steel sliced effortlessly through the husband's bag, dropping its contents into her waiting hand, movement screened by the confining crowd. As methods of pick pocketing went it was not one of her preferred, overt and inelegant, but effective none the less.

Oblivious to their loss, the family continued on, and Monty broke away, knife disappearing quickly as it had been produced as she slipped amongst the bustling electronics and food stores of Haiphong Road.

After the clean, open, curated spaces of the waterfront, Haiphong and its surrounds were a blessed return to form for the city, teeming streets lit by overhanging neon signs, building facades treated as a place to run pipes and power rather than architectural statements. Working by feel, hands still low, she checked her haul: a phone, passport, and what was definitely a man's wallet. Turning the phone off she opened that last, extracting a wad of notes from inside to be shoved in a pocket, remaining spoils dropping into a covered rubbish bin, sinking beneath wrappers and food scraps.

The whole exercise had taken less than ten seconds, what she needed now was to put some distance on the crime scene. Public transport was not an ideal option but, of the available evils, a bus would likely prove the least problematic.

Rounding the block to exit back onto Nathan Road, the girl boarded the first double decker to arrive, claiming a rear, upper level, seat whence she could keep an eye on the stair and pavement outside, while remaining safely obscured from those below. Scrutinising her new environment briefly, she settled in as it carried her farther north toward Mong Kok, pulling the wad of money out of her pocket once more.

Counting off notes, she shook her head: bless those scared of using cards in foreign countries. That would do her nicely and, adding both available denominations to a collection of previously acquired cash, she slipped the lot back into its hiding place.

_Pity about the passport, that and the man's effects could have fetched a good price, but finding a fence would be too dangerous in the immediate future._

Adrenalin moment gone, she stifled a yawn as the bus paused, before crossing traffic to turn northeast into Waterloo Road, cutting between hospitals rising on either flank. That should be just about far enough, especially when public transport was not somewhere she wanted to make an extended stay.

Pressing the button to signal she wished to exit, the girl peered ahead, trying to discern the next stop and, still craned forward, the ring of a phone suddenly shattered her concentration. Not just _a_ phone, _her _phone, and grabbing it out she inspected the screen. The number was not one she recognised, which meant little: vampire function or no, someone could well be trying to pinpoint her location...

_...or it could be Jethro._

Pausing as it rang again, she made up her mind and, stabbing the accept key, raised it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"_Hi luv, I forgot to pick up Tiger Balm from the store while I was out, could you grab some on your way home?"_

Face remaining impassive her heart skipped a beat, it _was_ Jethro, and a safe Jethro to boot. Forcing down that elation, the rest of the message registered: Tiger Balm, store, probably reference to Lei Yue Mun. Well, she had been headed there anyway, now she had even better reason to go and, glancing at her watch, she quickly ran the journey through in her head. She would need time to get clear of the bus, then to actually travel... it would have to be a taxi.

"I think I can do that. I'm out and about myself, probably won't be back until six or seven-ish."

"_That's fine, see you then..."_

From the line's far end came a pause, as if there were more to be said. Whatever it was though did not eventuate and he rang off, leaving her to lower the mobile again, staring its screen as what had been said sunk in. Her partner was alive, and safe, for now at least. She wanted to be elated, but the initial stab of joy quickly evaporated, they were far from out of the woods yet... though that could just be the fatigue talking.

Now the bus began to slow, snapping her attention back to the present. She could see the stop but, beginning to rise, she halted momentarily, gaze tracking again to the windscreen. In its reflection, eyes burned back, those belonging to a passenger in the front seat. Not someone she recognised, not one of her regular tails.

_He had been watching when she got on as well..._

That felt off and, maintaining an awareness of her observer, the young agent made her way to the stair down. As she began to descend, he too stood, phone coming to his ear.

_Very off... well, it had only been a matter of time before they found her._

Why had it not clicked before though? That had taken her far too long to notice... too concentrated on her spoils, and too little sleep.

_Neither of which was even remotely excusable._

Well, she certainly couldn't take him to Lei Yue Mun with her, notch up one more thing to do before she continued on.

Stepping from the bus's rearmost door she slipped into the crowd, immediately joining its flow and, as her transport pulled away, she used its mirror to check behind. Her tail was still present, keeping his distance, phone remaining in place as the top of his head bobbed above the other foot traffic.

The phone she did not like in the slightest, that suggested he was co-ordinating with someone, and the last time that happened she had not enjoyed, was _still _not enjoying, the result. If she were going to lose him she should to do so quickly, before reinforcements could arrive. She hadn't been on the bus long, that might give her a bit of a head start, the question was how to leverage it.

They were skirting the edge of Mong Kok again now, crumbling buildings packed tight together; that was good, that she could use and, ducking into a narrower street her pace quickened slightly, sliding through the throng meandering its way between cheap restaurants on either flank, doorways for apartment blocks above crushed into tight intervening spaces. First order of business: get away from major transport routes the Chinese could use to bring in more people. Not that it would help her in the long run, not if they had the manpower to surround her, but it might buy time.

_Presuming he was Chinese at all._

The thought struck like a thunderclap and, waiting until the opportunity presented, she glanced again in the mirrored back wall of a passing restaurant. No, now she looked closer the features were not Asian, close though, enough to remain indistinct in the poor quality reflection provided by Perspex bus windows, but definitely not local. The realisation sent her running images in her mind, those sketches presented by Jethro on their first night eventually throwing up a name: Martin Case, one of the SIS but, by all accounts, first and foremost one of Charlie's.

_So just who was he calling? For that matter, what was he doing tracking her in the first place?_

Whatever the reason, she had the distinct feeling it was not over any great concern for her personal well being.

Old and decrepit this area may have been, but the street she had chosen apparently ran long, devoid of breaks. That was not something she needed, it was only a matter of time before she was deposited on another main road. Come to think of it, she had to be getting uncomfortably close to where Lau intercepted her, kicking off this whole debacle to begin with.

Hopefully lightning would not strike twice.

Now she could see a junction approaching on the street's opposite side. That would have to head south toward the East Rail Line, again not a good option, but better than remaining here. Still, there was no point in giving the game away too early and, keeping to her own pavement, Monty continued her course.

Ahead the crowd thickened, waiting to cross steaming tarmac toward that intersecting thoroughfare and, reaching its edge, she paused, heart sinking as eyes flicked across the way. Approaching down the far footpath came another familiar face, and not this time one from pictures.

Through drizzle beginning to fall, Noodle's gaze turned directly into the waiting throng, hand pressed her ear and, glancing around, the young agent found her other pursuer, phone also still in place.

Watching, she felt a chill run up her spine; surely not, they wouldn't be that overt.

Not that there was anyone present to check up on who scratched backs for whom... excepting herself, of course.

That was another unpleasant thought, but one to contemplate later and, original plan dashed, the girl turned away, continuing down her existing route, new Orchid tail mirroring her beyond passing traffic. She needed an out, and quickly. If Noodle had been covering that street, it was a fair bet someone would be coming the opposite direction down this one to close off her escape. Up was always an option, but she could not well go leaping a storey or more to get there. Maybe one of the restaurants had a rear exit.

Glancing to one side, she eyed an entrance as she passed, open front quickly replaced by another glass door for apartment blocks above.

_The apartments._

Her tails had to know they were spotted. Pace increasing, Monty forged ahead, scanning more doors at her flank for a suitable candidate as they slid by and, attention flicking forward to check the way, her breath froze. Through the crowd came another of Zhang's men, closing from in front. That settled it, they had to be co-ordinating... not to mention very confident they were going to get her and, to be fair, at this particular juncture that confidence was probably well founded.

Her former tail was closer now and, as she noted his position again, a movement caught her attention. At his back, one of the apartment lobbies was opening, its resident ushering a girl out. Not perfect, but it would do, and Monty suddenly dashed forward, ignoring cries of surprise as she elbowed bodies from her path.

Her unexpected charge took the agent off guard also, and the cyborg dropped her shoulder, as if to tackle him head on. Bracing, the man extended both arms, ready to intercept but, taking one more stride she twisted away, sliding beneath his grasp to cannon into the exiting tenants behind. Shoving the pair's male half aside, she wrenched the door from his hands to slam it shut.

Inside, post boxes lined either flank, a lift entrance taking up the final bit of space. Waiting for that latter was too much of a gamble, and she instead ran for its circling steps, bounding up three at a time as shouting erupted at her back, not just one voice either, more joining in over the din of fists hammering against toughened glazing.

She just made it onto the second landing when pistol shots echoed up the concrete stairwell, accompanied by the crash of shattering glass.

_That had not taken long._

Pounding feet rose from below as she continued her upward charge; third floor, fourth, fifth... the next level had no corridor, just a door, and she burst through into a forest of television antennae, weaving between dripping metal spires, heading for the building's edge.

More shouts from behind, and she ducked away as a shot ricocheted off the satellite dish above her head in a spray of water. That movement though brought her to the parapet, fingers catching its edge as she dropped over, arresting her descent for a split second before falling the remaining storey to the next rooftop. Spinning mid-air she hit its concrete surface, tumbling forward, roll converting the impact into forward motion. Then she was up again as her pursuers arrived at the precipice above, rounds smacking into concrete behind retreating heels as she hit the next guardrail at a run.

Vaulting over she dropped again, forgoing catching on this time to instead slide off the awning below, twisting to grab its end and swing herself beneath, crashing feet first through the glass door it sheltered.

No time to pause, it wouldn't take her competition long to guess where she'd gone.

Ignoring the apartment occupant's sudden scream the cyborg raced through, charging out its entry into the corridor beyond. Bouncing off its opposite wall she carried on toward a window at the space's end. Hefting that open put her back on the building's exterior to leap across the narrow gap, slowing her descent, before a drainpipe on the far wall took care of the remaining distance to ground.

The alley she landed in was damp, open one end onto the street so recently fled. Not a place to remain and, hugging dirty concrete she slunk back into the block's centre, risking a glance upward: no-one visible on the roof, but there were only so many places she could have gone. Dodging through the detritus of rubbish and rudimentary lean-tos, she found another building entry on the waste ground's far side, lock picks making short work of its cheap security so she could push through into the passage behind. Hidden now she finally slowed, taking a brief moment to dust off, before stepping onto public pavement at its far facade, hailing the nearest cab.

"Lei Yue Mun Market, please."

Sliding into the vehicle's rear seat she tore off her hat, slouching into her best teenager impression. Watching a door mirror, no sooner had the driver pulled away than Martin's tiny figure appeared on the footpath, lit red by passing tail-lights, looking around briefly before traffic closed in to obscure him from view, and Monty allowed herself a small sigh of relief. That, she did not feel like doing again in the near future.

Twice now she had been forced to run in two days, and to have found her so quickly from cold this time around her opponents must be willing to throw a huge amount of manpower into the search, willing enough to start co-ordinating between agencies.

_Or perhaps not between _agencies_, as the case may be._

Whatever Zhang, and Charlie, wanted, they apparently considered it important enough to risk operating together overtly to bring her in, and whatever that thing was, she somehow doubted its acquisition was for the benefit of China or Great Britain. Either way, what she really needed was a place to go to ground, drop off the radar for a bit. The Chinese were always able to throw people at a problem and Charlie, presumably, had his station's resources to draw on, but this sort of frenetic pace could not be maintained forever.

Sitting straighter, the girl watched as Kowloon's towers slid by, gaps between reflective fortifications affording her the occasional glimpse toward old Kai Tak airport and Victoria Harbour as the taxi worked its way east. The real problem she now faced was what they did from here because, closing net or no, they still had a job to do. The sensible thing would be to beat a retreat, pull out completely until things settled down, but that held little appeal. Just closing on the press again had taken all too long, and who knew when they would require its trail next time, if at all... or that it would even remain in Hong Kong. That, ultimately, came down to how switched on the Padania were. Even without herself chasing, if they knew the SIS and Second Department were taking an interest they would surely move their forging operation as soon as physically possible. It that were so, she really did not have time to let the heat properly die down, not unless she and Jethro felt like starting over from scratch, again.

Outside, high-rise buildings melted into low store fronts, Technicolor facades giving way to bright lights once more reflecting from slick pavements marking the entrance to Lei Yue Mun and, slowing to a crawl, the taxi nosed up against their edge. Paying her fare, Monty gave her surrounds one final look over, before sliding out into the dribble of people washing farther into the market's depths.

Glancing at her watch, the girl concealed a grimace, right now she had time to kill; not an ideal position to be in with what seemed like Hong Kong's entire spook population on her trial. Normally she would have been willing to wander, do her bit in the role of tourist, but that was useless now, any thoughts of replenishing her finances in the interim well and truly dashed. What she needed was somewhere to quietly hide away, ideally where she could keep an eye on Jethro's rendezvous point. The last thing she wanted was for him to be hanging around any longer than absolutely necessary: if Charlie and Zhang were after her, it was a fair bet he constituted equally, and probably even more, highly prized game.

She was entering the market proper now, density of people around her increasing, very much a double edge sword, darkness having negated rudimentary measures toward obscuring her western features. None of the stores would do to wait in: too open, alright for a few minutes against a single tail, but far too easily kept tabs on by a concerted, methodical search... and she had a nasty feeling the manpower for such an operation was absolutely available.

_Saving grace: it was doubtful those controlling the searchers could be sure she had come this way._

Stepping down another alley, she passed the store Tiger's man had found her and Jethro at previously, a case in point, its recesses only deep enough to thwart the casual observer. Turning from it, her gaze lifted skyward to watch light rain glitter as it passed bright lamps, before splashing into reflective puddles at her feet, and her eyes narrowed. While originally single storey, above the market's warmly lit rat runs, wood and tin structures poked from its roof, forming geometric shadows against foliaged hills. Obviously some of those shopkeepers had found the enticement of zero commute and minimal rent enough to put up with a permanent stench of fish.

Whatever the reason for those ramshackle shacks however, they offered a solution, one which didn't involve lying in pooling rain. All she needed was means by which to get up there, admittedly easier said than done in an environment where a normally hidden alley could constitute a major thoroughfare.

Moving deeper into the market, toward where green slopes met the encroaching village, trees started to dot its pavements, invading the spaces between aged buildings. It was darker back here, quieter and, ensuring she remained unobserved, Monty leapt to grab a hanging branch, shimmying upward along its length.

Dropping quietly onto drenched asbestos sheeting she paused, despite everything taking a moment to drink in the vista spread before her, structures visible from street level doing little justice for what reality now laid bare. Here, a whole neighbourhood existed in secret, lit from below by glowing canyons, rain misting into warm halos over those traipsing in their depths, oblivious to what moved above. Rudimentary tin and wood shacks stretched away toward the harbour, looping wires crisscrossing between, some supporting strings of incandescent bulbs or red lanterns under another forest of antennae, scene backstopped by the shifting neon skyline of Hong Kong proper in the distance. It was another reality completely, city beyond and below muted, blocked by the stage curtain from these quiet homes. Here and there a window remained alight, or flickered to an invisible television set, suggesting this hidden world however remained not entirely deserted.

Tearing eyes away, Monty shifted her attention, tracing the route back to her intended meeting point through radiant pathways at her feet. Committing that to memory, she slunk off along the rough wooden planking which zigzagged across corrugated sheeting, careful to avoid any of this veiled community's inhabitants.

Despite its beauty from this perspective, the market's layout proved a maze of its own, soundless leaps over public depths dispensed with quickly, if they could not be avoided entirely. Soon however, the young spy was back above her target area, crouched under dripping eaves of another rusting shack, just clear of the street's shimmering light as it rose from ground level and, glancing at her watch again, she settled in to wait.

_Still half an hour to go._

The decision to climb was soon proven as correct as, ambling down the crevasse floor, came another of Zhang's cronies, the same as had tailed them at the Peak Tower, head swinging left and right as he peered into shops and stalls. Midway along he paused, staring harder down a narrow, roofed-over, passage, separating the backs of fishmongers below, steep wooden stairs, Monty had discovered, leading up through concealed holes to the level she currently occupied.

The stop was only brief and, noting the time on her watch, she hit a pusher to set the Heuer's chronograph running as he moved on, setting a measure for his return.

The second part of that check however remained unfulfilled and, as the small dial's hand passed thirty-five minutes, another figure appeared, this one much more welcome. Across the way, her partner paused, taking an easy glance around, before stepping briskly into the same shop as had sheltered them previously.

Own check from this higher vantage point offering assurance the street below would remain clear for a few more seconds, the girl abandoned her position, moving quickly to drop through the neat roofing gap. Not bothering with the stair she landed quietly, straightening to saunter easily through in his wake.

"You're late."

The response was almost instant, and she found herself folded into a silent, crushing embrace, partner's face pressing hard to the top of her head as her own arms snaked around his back in reply. Treading heavily on her own surge of emotion, Monty counted off seconds, reaching five before sliding slender fingered hands inside Jethro's grasp to gently nudge his arms apart. There was a moment's resistance but, stepping back as the death grip relinquished, she looked up into moist eyes, accepting a fleeting kiss in the process.

That, seemingly, was the signal things were back under control, and she spoke quickly, voice low, shoving the multitude of questions she so desperately wanted to ask aside.

"Art passed this way a bit over half an hour ago, I doubt it will be long before he's back."

At that, Jethro threw her a wry half grin. "And it's good to see you too."

Returning the gesture with an equally sad smile, she felt herself ushered out onto wet pavement again, Jethro's hand never leaving the small of her back. Letting her lead momentarily to turn toward where 'Art' had disappeared, he bent down as she spoke softly once more.

"He walked through from the other direction so, if his pattern is methodical..."

"...this should be the clearest route out," finished Jethro. "You think he is though?"

Monty gave an actual grimace at that. "I don't know what your escape experience was, but from what I've seen since yesterday, Zhang and Charlie consider us worth making a priority, so they will spare the people. Frankly, I'm already getting a little sick of having to dodge our competition so regularly."

No reply and, taking two more steps, her partner directed her down a perpendicular stretch of stalls, zigzagging toward the market entrance, eyes constantly peeled. What really worried her was that Martin, Noodle, and their helper had come in a group and, even if resultant from the SIS man's call, their travel distance must have been short. If that were the case, how many were hovering around the Lei Yue Mun as well?

Turning down another narrow path, the road out of the market appeared before them, and Jethro guided her toward a small, beaten, Mitsubishi van, sliding its door back to usher her into its rear before, unusually, following inside. Curious, her eyes turned to the driver's seat, quickly narrowing to snap back to her partner.

"Explanation."

"Long story."

"I'm sure it is," the retort was quick coming, "but I'm not entirely trusting of the local SIS at present."

Selecting first with a crunch of worn synchros, and swinging their vehicle around in a tight arc, Mary glanced quickly toward the new arrival. "Smart girl. I'm sure we can all swap tales later but, right now, this is the second car I've had to nick in the same number of days, so I would _really_ prefer we spend as little time with it as possible."

Arm snaking around her, Monty felt Jethro's grip tighten, other wrapping across to press her tightly against his side, lips once more lowered to rest against the top of her head. When they came free, his words were quiet. "Zhang _and_ Charlie... I suspect I may owe you an apology on that front."


	10. CH09 The Minder

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

_With thanks to Officer_Charon for the continued loan of Fausto and Carlos, and Professor Voodoo for the similar ongoing use of Genco Ribisi. Elio Alboreto also belongs to Professor Voodoo, and Michele Pagani to Kiskaloo._

* * *

**Chapter 09|The Minder**

Leaning back against the safe house's small kitchen bench, Monty accepted another plate from her partner, scrubbing somewhat ineffectually at wet stoneware with an already damp towel before it tapped onto the scuffed table top. Careful not to bump Mary's tea in the process, she took the opportunity to glance closer at the laptop screen turned her direction, checking its transfer of data from her phone and, perhaps more importantly, ensuring nothing she _didn't_ want seen went across. Credit where credit was due, the British agent had at least given them that, which was nice, though not nice enough to remove any lingering wariness.

Another semi-dry plate rattled atop its twin and, at that sound, the woman in question looked up from her place at the setting's head.

"You don't trust me, do you."

It was a statement, not a question, and Monty cocked an eyebrow. No point arguing. "Can you name a particularly compelling reason I should?"

"I can see why he holds on to _you_." Those words were quiet, muttered well below the limit of normal human hearing, but her next were at a more regular volume. "Not that I expect could convince you. In my defence however, I _have_ provided safe harbour."

"She has that." Feeling an arm wrap around her, the girl gave an obligatory yelp as a wet hand found its way to her belly's lower curve, partner's chin resting on a shoulder to kiss at scowling lips turned his direction, before continuing. "For now, I think we give Mary here the benefit of the doubt."

"Like I told your boyfriend yesterday: in rooting out the Italians' forging operation, we're on the same side..."

_And what about for everything after?_

Her face, however, returned to impassivity, keeping that thought silent while her opposite continued.

"...and it's Katherine, by the way."

The eyebrow went up again. "Katherine?"

"My name, if it helps, is Katherine. Katherine Olivia Fuji, if you want the whole thing."

The hand removed itself, shifting to massage at a shoulder as her partner spoke, voice wry. "Your card said 'Mary Christmas'."

Now it was Katherine's turn administer the dry tone. "Yes, well, it was deemed appropriate by the brains trust for a potential Blacker Girl..." her eyes flicked once more to Monty, "...though Vauxhall wasn't aware you were already brining your own, which somewhat torpedoed plans for my keeping tabs on you."

Scowl briefly reasserting itself at that title's connotations, the girl turned the rest over in her head. So, their meeting in Monaco had not been accidental, no surprises there. Getting confirmation though did raise questions regards just what else had been a targeted move.

Presumably Jethro was thinking down similar lines, and she felt his hand tighten, movement almost imperceptible. "Nice M still cares, though how do we know you're not just feeding us another windup?"

At that, the SIS agent shot them both a wry smile. "As I said: I doubt what I say can convince you, so I'm afraid you're just going to have to trust I'm really offering an olive branch."

Tailing off, she held the fratello's gazes, sounds of Hong Kong life wafting up from busy streets below in the sudden silence, grating air conditioning unit's rhythmic scrape counting away beats as the pause dragged on.

Finally, the SWA man spoke again. "That, I guess we will."

With those words, Monty felt her partner's hand relax, and he continued in more natural tones. "Well you already know me, but if we're redoing introductions this is..."

"Monty, yes?" Katherine's attention returned to her. "I believe that _is_ the name you were first introduced to Algy under, so I'm guessing it's the real one. We have three identities on file for you actually..." another wry snort escaped her lips, "...though most of the office still uses 'Vesper', I think they find it rather amusing."

"I'm sure they do." The tone was flat. "What I would like to know is how you got from Monaco to here."

"Via Grindelwald."

"Yes, via Grindelwald."

Silence fell again as the British agent halted, presumably evaluating how much to tell and, in the gap, dishes clattered as Jethro starting back about washing up. Accepting a fresh glass, Monty once more considered the response: no mention of Alexandria. It wasn't definitive proof, but suggested Katherine was not aware she had been sighted snooping around the deceased Nick and Shamus's boat. Question was, had her attention to _Foreplay_ been a result of tracking the Padania's press, or of keeping tabs on a potential rogue agent, in which case, just how much _did_ she know about their stint in Monaco?

Finally, the woman spoke up. "Jethro already knows this, but I presume you've worked out Charlie Wilkes, and Station H by extension, are not entirely straight."

The intensity of activity from the sink suddenly increased, and Monty's next words could have dehydrated oceans.

"I did have an inkling, yes."

"Parts of Vauxhall have suspected Wilkes might be in bed with the Chinese for some time, as well as pursuing... _other interests..._ shall we say, on the side."

"Such as his own license to print money."

"Indeed. Both we had been catching sniffs of here and there, but never anything solid enough to nail him, or get him removed from Station Chieftanship."

Another semi-dried glass tapped onto the table top, swapped briefly for a coffee mug which was tilted back to draw from. "Define 'we'."

"Factions within the SIS, squabbling lieutenants by all accounts. Either way, since I had been chasing up some of those leads already, when we got wind the Italians were moving their operation east, Algy saw it as an opportunity to slip me in also. Fortunately I'm still junior enough that jumping sections isn't difficult, so technically I report directly to Wilkes."

The clatter of dishes paused, and Monty's head turned as her partner spoke. "Algy and Charlie don't exactly get along, he would have smelled a rat you coming from Panama."

"Not Panama, the European Section. Long story short, since I had touched on chasing the fake C-Note operation previously, Wilkes wasted no time in putting me to work on that again." Reaching forward to pick up her tea, Katherine took a sip before continuing. "That went fine for a bit, slow, but fine. Something must have got him riled though, because not too long after, Zhang's people started to take an interest, and now here we are."

"It couldn't have been the Chinese acting independently?"

"Could be, but I doubt it."

Now Monty piped up. "I suspect it isn't Zhang working off his own bat, not with his people and Case coordinating operations."

"Martin Case?" This time, genuine interest coloured Katherine's tone.

"Yes, before I headed down to Lei Yue Mun yesterday. They seem to be somewhat intent on bringing us in."

"Then it's a pity I can't use you for evidence, because that's the sort of thing would help me corner Wilkes..." a wry chuckle, "...Algy _was_ rather hoping you two could do the leg work and maybe draw some fire. So much for that plan."

"Really? I think we managed quite handily."

Treating her partner to a flat expression, the cyborg continued. "Question is, if Zhang and Charlie are cooperating, then why shut _you_ down?"

"Who knows, maybe they're worried I'll just find and toddle on off with the press myself, or push a report somewhere they don't want it."

_Or they suspect an ulterior motive._

"And where does Charlie think you are at present?"

Jethro's voice again, sink gurgling behind and, folding her tea towel over once, the girl shoved it behind cupboard edging before plonking down on a wood and steel chair as her handler joined them, placing her between himself and Katherine as that latter answered.

"Right now he believes I've gone to ground, trying shed some Chinese interest before picking up the hunt again, which gives me an excuse to keep communication to a minimum. He also thinks I'm at a Station H safe house, so is 'steering clear'." She took another sip of tea. "Going back to your original question though, I could ask the same thing: how did _you _get here?"

One arm draping around his charge, the room's sole male occupant leaned forward. "You know how we got here."

"I know how you got from _Paris_, but what drew you there in the first place? I'm going to guess it wasn't just for the romantic cliché."

"It could have been." Twisting in her partner's grasp, Monty reprised her deadpan look, this time mimicked by the woman at her other flank, and she received a half grin in reply as he continued in more sober tones. "We were following a lead, then Algy turned up and saved us a few interim steps..."

The computer binged and, reaching forward, the girl unplugged her phone, slender fingered hand collecting mobile and cable from it in one movement. Jethro had a point though, Algy's package had probably rendered much just handed over redundant, and anything coming from the SWA couldn't be tabled without risk of compromising their own position. So far, there had been no indication the British were party to her true nature...

_...but, if the SIS were even half as good as it was made out to be, it would have to be at least aware of increasingly prevalent cyborg rumours and, by all indicators, suspicion was that they worked for Italy. It wouldn't take a genius to put two and two together._

Her handler, however, was still speaking. "What I'd rather like to know is why Panama thought we'd take their bait."

"We're the SIS."

In which case, following Katherine's thwarted attempt to join Jethro, where _had_ that information come from?

Pocketing her phone, the cyborg kept that thought to herself, next words dry. "You're parroting Algernon."

"You have your secrets, we have ours. Thing is, Algy's packet should have pretty much covered the sum total of what I've found to date."

The girl shrugged. "Much of what I've just given you will probably be rehashing old ground then I'm afraid, and you know where we're at in country."

"And was your trip up Long Harbour fruitful? I lost contact once you left Sam Mun Tsai, and when you got back, well..."

Trailing off, the woman opposite pulled a wry expression, one Monty found herself returning, taking the opportunity to weigh options as she did so and, when the reply came, its words were slow, cautious.

"_A little_. I presume those photos Algy provided were your handiwork, not actually someone toying across the internet?"

"From Kwai Tsing? Those were mine, yes."

"You didn't perchance see where the Italians' container went once it left the docks?"

That got a shake of the head. "I'm afraid not. One of the locals was supposed to be watching the exit."

The girl nodded. "Well it somehow got from there to the coves around Long Harbour. We suspect the press itself may have been transferred to another vessel, likely shallow drafted, possibly some variety of barge." A short sigh escaped her lips. "However, if you've not been able to keep tabs either there's no certainty it actually went all the way, and chasing down records of vessel traffic through the area is going to be difficult with Zhang sitting on us."

On her shoulder, Jethro's hand gave a reassuring squeeze. "There are other ways to deal with that if needs be. As it stands, none of us can move so well at present and, frankly, sneaking around out of sight is not entirely my cup of tea anyway." Now he looked toward Katherine. "I don't suppose you've any light to shed on the subject?"

That drew another sad headshake. "Sorry, I've only been in country a few months. Half of that has been spent holed up here, so I've not had much chance to build a network, and I suspect you'll have already tried the contacts Algy gave me. Feasibly I could go through Station H, but I'd avoid doing so for anything you don't want Zhang also immediately in on."

"Algernon didn't give you a way to contact him directly?"

"He did, but the more secure conduits are slow."

Picking up her mug, Monty tapped it with a finger, before looking over. "It might not hurt to feed Charlie the odd morsel or two."

"No, it doesn't, and I have been... just not often."

"If we do that too regularly they may be able to pull a pattern from it, no matter how careful we are," added Jethro. "I've a few contacts of my own, but they're old..."

"I'd rather not pay Tiger again, that was a very poor deal."

The girl's tone was harsh, and her handler gave her shoulder another calming squeeze before continuing.

"No, and I don't think I want to give him too much more of the picture anyway but, as I said, there are other options." His gaze turned to flick between the two women, and Monty followed it to their opposite number as well. "Of course, there will still be _some_ leg work needs doing, which I'm afraid may fall to you two."

"Not to me," Katherine's reply was quick, "don't forget I spent my first month or so here in and out of the local office, so Wilkes's people can pick me fairly easily."

"And Zhang's have your mug shots to boot."

"Oh _do_ they now?"

The tone was not of surprise or shock, but rather sardonic interest, and Monty studied their companion again across the rim of her coffee as her partner replied.

"There may have been some light break and enter involved, but yes... along with _my_ mug shots and surveillance images of the three of us."

Now Katherine's gaze flicked between the two fratello members. "Could you do it again? The break and enter I mean."

At that, the girl felt herself pulled in against her partner, a kiss landing on the top of her head, "Sorry luv, by the sound of things this particular ball will be landing mostly in your court after all."

"_Brilliant."_ Own eyes resting on the British agent, she continued. "Probably, why?"

"Because that might be enough to at least get some pressure on Wilkes from Vauxhall's end. If nothing else it would give him something to think about which is not _us_."

The girl kept her face impassive. Giving the competition a distraction was certainly tempting, but if Katherine managed to oust Charlie off the back of it that probably spelled an end for any cooperation they might receive in chasing the Padania's money stream. Not to mention she had little urge to push her luck twice.

It was Jethro, however, who replied, thumb beginning to massage idly at her shoulder. "It's certainly a thought, but maybe for later. The place is in Wan Chai, and I don't think any of us feel like trekking across the harbour in the near future. For now I posit we take a turn through what can be done regards chasing the Italians from here, not to mention Monty and I are still somewhat underequipped for a more stand-up fight."

"I could use a computer."

"Yes, and weapons not ours." Now he looked over at Katherine as well. "You and I agreed already it would be best if none of us put in a public showing for a few days, and I think we'd all prefer to avoid racking up any favours through Charlie's crowd. In the meantime we might as well pull together a list of what information and equipment we're short on, and look to divvying that up between those contacts we think are viable."

Slight unhappiness flickering across her features, the other woman nodded. "Only getting what we absolutely need would limit our exposure, I guess."

"Precisely," pointing to where folders of documents had been shifted into a heap beside the television, he continued, "and to that end, I propose a worthwhile starting point would be to hit the books and see what homework has already been done."

* * *

Unlike its more easterly cousin, Turin was being spared the worst of summer's wrath, a milder change sweeping from the Alps across baroque terracotta rooves, cooling the Piedmont city and beckoning its citizens under overcast skies onto previously torrid streets. Watching from the driver's seat of his borrowed BMW, Hilshire grimaced. While the weather was certainly more pleasant, he could have done without the extra foot traffic, each person here, deep in Padania territory, a potential informant...

...and it wasn't just his own back needed looking out for either.

Using a wing mirror to glance along this street, he found the dark blue shape of Gaspare's Peugeot coupé, wedged into a line of kerb-parked cars under concrete and stone escarpments. The other fratello's presence still made him slightly uneasy, two more faces confirmed as compromised doubling their chances of detection.

_And Fleccia's bright red mop wasn't helping in that regard._

Jean's instructions had, however, been clear: compromised fratelli were not to go swanning around on their own and, to be fair, the additional firepower should they actually be spotted would be welcome.

The extra pairs of eyes were also handy and, leaving the 406's demure outline, his gaze moved to a covered doorway, black Maserati limousine moored alongside, sandwiched midway between the two SWA vehicles. While not a fast exercise to get him here, Section One's work in Trieste had finally paid off, eventually isolating a single employee in Primavera's system whose appointments and communications best mirrored Vito's known movements, with enough certainty at least to concentrate their efforts. Continued digging was now yielding a steady stream of information: airline bookings, expenses, clients... though some big holes as well. There was only so long he could afford to sit on his hands however, and progress had been enough to justify calling for help, yielding Genco Ribisi to ride herd in his stead, under explanation of the Blackers having gone quiet.

Which, of course, left him to trail across half of Italy from one location to another frequented by their suspect employee.

That thought brought a slight frown, he did seem to be spending an awful lot of time sitting on streets watching buildings of late, perhaps he should consider bringing some architecture books along for Triela. This one was at least a little more interesting to behold, Middle-Eastern window gratings and art nouveau awning at odds with otherwise baroque architecture.

_No joy yet though._

Scanning the facade, his attention flashed across the brass plaque on its wall, too distant to read, but marking offices behind as Cifa Risso Insurance Brokers, according to Fausto and Carlos' nocturnal reconnaissance. Handing over to the fratelli before turning in, that pair's final task had been to charge Genco with chasing up information on the company, just in case the hackers were not keeping him busy enough.

"Someone's coming out."

Triela's voice snapped his attention back to the present, rear view mirror's tiny window just enough to discern two shadowy figures. One, taller and male, stood proud on the footpath, business trousers and jacket contrasting against the cream power suit of his dumpy, greying, female companion.

"Can you identify them?"

In her seat, the cyborg craned forward, staring closer at the passenger side wing mirror as the latter paused to say something back through heavy wood doors.

"No, they're facing away."

_Damn._

Fumbling across age-brittled centre console plastic, the detective extracted a radio, pressing down its talk button.

"Montenero, Hilshire. You seem them?"

There was a moment's pause, before the device crackled, Gaspare's voice arriving distorted through its speaker.

"_Yeah, we see them, that's definitely our man. Do you recognise the woman?"_

"I cannot tell, we are having trouble getting a good look from here."

"_Alright, we're on it."_

Leaving the radio somewhere more accessible, Hilshire returned eyes to the brokers' office. Vito had reached the waiting Maserati now and, back remaining to his audience, opened a rear door for his charge, affording a quick glance at her face in the process. Like the plaque her features were blurred at this distance, but fortunately he did not need to use his own eyes.

"Triela?"

Beside him, the girl shook her head. "No, I don't recognise her."

Vito had closed the door now, trotting behind the limousine to reappear on its street flank before sliding into the car's rear also.

His brow furrowed again at that. They had no confirmation on the man's background as yet, but the general consensus was that it likely lay in some variety of espionage, corporate or government. That he had chosen not to drive suggested he was not currently working in a capacity for those skills to directly benefit whom he was with.

_Or he was working with someone of similar previous engagement._

Those were thoughts for another time though as, behind, the big Maserati began to move, trundling down the street under hanging lamps toward them, away from Gaspare's waiting Peugeot. Letting it idle past, the detective kept his head lowered, counting seconds before firing the dark 5-Series into life and slipping into his target's wake.

Finding another gear, he picked up the radio again.

"Looks like he is going our way."

"_That it does. Keep us posted."_

Ahead, Vito's transport paused, indicator blinking as it swung into the street beyond, and Hilshire spoke once more, slowing for the same intersection

"Target is turning south..." the BMW jolted as its engine ran out of revs, and he lunged for the gear lever, juggling the handset to change down, "...onto Via Ormea_."_

"_Roger that. I'll try get parallel and a bit ahead on the city side. That'll cover the railway tracks, but you'll need to deal with the river flank."_

Turning out onto the main road, Hilshire got the car rolling properly before replying. "Will do."

Handset dropping from his mouth again, he eyed it grumpily: not a problem encountered with the E-Class's automatic box and, making a quick decision, he held it out.

"Triela, keep talking to Mr. Spada and let him know where we're going."

"Yes sir."

Not, as it turned out, that she had much to pass on. Whoever _was _carrying their target's driving duties certainly wasn't making any attempt to shake, or even identify, the trailing vehicle, none he could discern anyway, and the detective fell back a little farther in response. No point in making himself more visible than necessary, he would get to grips with this spy thing yet.

The radio crackled again.

"_Hilshire, Montenero, I'm just crossing Dante Aligheri now."_

Picturing the city's layout, the detective glanced at his cyborg briefly. Fortunately Gaspare was referencing major roads, which made things easier.

"He's about a block ahead of Vito." In her own seat, Triela began relaying the message as Hilshire continued. "Tell him to hold in Piazza Carducci if he can."

Evasive driving or no, the roads around Carducci were complex, and congested, and one of them going the wrong direction could spell disaster. The lack of any attempt at elusion however did suggest that Vito was, indeed, not acting in his espionage role, which raised the question of what he _was_ doing. Surely he wasn't _actually _working for Primavera, with that latter in the dark. He was absent too often for that to be viable, so then what? Something to do with the woman?

The Maserati was turning again, right, toward Turin's centre, and Gaspare's position.

Mimicking his target's action, Hilshire's BMW merged onto a wide boulevard, expanse of the piazza visible ahead, effect of its open space amongst low-rise apartments somewhat marred by criss-cross tram power lines, ringing approaches and the roundabout at its centre.

"You see him?"

In her seat, Triela leaned forward, radio already at her lips as she replied, letting their compatriots in on the conversation.

"Yes, they're just entering the roundabout now, turning left, headed south again."

"_We see them."_ Gaspare's response was almost instant. _"I'll take over, you keep covering the river."_

From the driver's seat, Hilshire gave his cyborg a nod, and she began to answer in the affirmative as he pulled up short of the piazza, a block behind Vito's route. Now, however, he had to replicate the other fratello's leading position and, accelerator pressed harder the 535i surged forward, six cylinder engine sending it charging through the median and left, back toward the Po River. Slowing for the next turn south, the handler bit back a swear word: one way, and not the way he wanted, forcing him on before the University of Turin's vast frontage. The next break was a campus entrance, also useless, but the intersection beyond let him swing onto river banks proper. At least he was headed the correct direction now, but it was too distant if Gaspare should require help, much too distant, and he accelerated again.

Surging along the waterfront, university walls still dominated his other flank, gaps in hulking stonework presenting the institution's own tarmac maze. That he did not feel like negotiating and, road opening out toward another roundabout the detective dropped a gear, braking hard to jostle right, away from the river's slow course, diving instead beneath campus grounds, engine note reverberating from hard tunnel walls.

From Triela's side came the radio's crackle, and she keyed it in reply.

"Say again?"

More static, no signal.

There was daylight visible now, and bursting from underground Hilshire took stock of what he could see. Ahead was another roundabout, red brick offices on its far flank, a water tower standing in the distance to his left, its base obscured by high fencing and trees: rail yards. They had cut right across the district, popping up on the chase's city side and, from her seat, his cyborg repeated her message.

The reply was quick coming.

"_Target turned right after Corso Spezia and stopped at the AC Hotel Torino. Both passengers have gone in, I've taken up a position to watch the front."_

Swinging left to parallel rail fencing, Hilshire let his BMW slow, idling between warehouses and chain wire toward the tower until he could get his bearings. Turning right would have brought Gaspare this direction, and he gestured for the radio back.

"Montenero, Hilshire. Can you see a water tower from where you are?"

A moment's pause.

"_Yeah, big open car park behind the hotel, bloody great water tower directly after."_

"Ok, I see the tower too..." on his flank, industrial walls gave way to wide asphalt and low buildings beyond, "...and I see the hotel, we are on the far side of the car park from you. We will take up position and wait to see if anyone comes out the back."

"_Roger that, I'll get comfortable here then."_

Placing the radio down once more, he glanced toward Triela, big saloon continuing its sauntering course toward where both perimeter road and car park terminated at another roundabout.

"See if you can pick us somewhere to stop. Not in the park itself mind."

Own attention turning that direction he scanned the space, concrete bollards separating him from its expanse, only a few vehicles scattered amongst white marked lines at this time of day, suggesting a more business focus for its clientele.

"Over there, off the next roundabout."

His cyborg's voice cut across those thoughts, and the handler followed to where she was pointing at one exit, a short stretch of tarmac leading through overgrown verge to barbed wire topped rolling gates. Sitting in the marshalling yard entrance didn't really appeal but...

"You can't see anywhere else?"

"No."

Well, the world was imperfect.

Pulling onto the circle, Hilshire slowed, checking for oncoming traffic, before backing into the private access and switching off, attention turning back to the target building. Illegal though it may have been, the position did offer a fair view of both approaches, as well as the parking lot beyond, intervening shrubs and signage helping obscure the waiting saloon.

Hopefully Vito would not be too long.

"Triela, keep an eye on the hotel."

"Just the hotel?" Her tone was testy.

"You know what I mean."

No reply and, extracting a notepad and pen, he began to jot down what had gone so far. Seemingly Vito was not playing spy, so what then was his purpose here? Was it in his capacity as a Primavera employee, keeping up appearances as it were? Or was his actual target the woman, and again, if so, was that being done through Primavera? The lead which brought them to Turin had certainly come via that institution, but that could easily have been unrelated cover and, if his intentions toward a customer were less than pure, would that business risk tarnishing their reputation by allowing him to work on them under the brand?

Of course, how much risk that latter would be willing to take probably boiled down to how much pressure had been brought to bear by the Padania leadership... or how loyal and passionate Primavera's own management was, at least that part which looked after their resident insurgent.

Pausing a moment in his scribbling, the detective tapped his pen's point against paper, thinking.

No, it couldn't be under the guise of Primavera. That company's trading had been frozen, quite publicly so, since the SWA's impromptu raid, employees scattered to the four winds or, at least, none had attempted to report to work since. Which put him right back where he had started: if not for business, and not as an agent on the ground, why was Vito here? Was he grooming another pawn like Anasetti? If so, his current target looked an unlikely sniper.

The key was the woman.

Adding another question mark to the end of that note, his thoughts were interrupted by a quiet, exasperated noise from the passenger seat and, placing pen and pad in one hand, he glanced over to the girl beside him. Her previous attitude he had written off as not wanting to be told the obvious but...

_Frankly, trying to work out the minds of criminals was much easier._

"Are you alright? Triela?"

"Fine."

That sounded like a lie and, work being stowed in a jacket pocket, he turned back toward her, stifling his own sigh. "If there's something I can do..."

"I said I'm fine..." her voice trailed away and, looking toward him, she seemed to relent. "It's not anything you've done, if that's what you're worried about. It's just..." she made a sweeping gesture, "...call it a lack of progress."

His brow creased at that. "We have found Vito, haven't we?"

"Yes, but it has taken a long time to get here, even with Mr. Blacker and Monty's help."

A pause. There was some truth in that but, well...

"I don't think we can expect things to move as quickly as they have in the past. The Padania are getting smarter, they are learning, just like we are." He forced a more jocular tone. "At least we're not spread quite so thin anymore."

"If you call only having one detective 'not spread thin'," she glanced up, "look out."

Her sudden vocal change caused the handler also to glance up, and this time a small groan did escape as the white and green shape of a _Polizia Municipale_ Fiat pulled across his car's bow. Watching two blue uniformed police exit their vehicle, he wound down his window, hands remaining where they would be visible as one officer approached, her partner standing back to keep an eye on the situation.

Leaning on the BMW's roof, she bent down to study its occupants, short, brown, hair falling either side of attractively middle-aged features.

"Are you broken down?"

For a moment, Hilshire was tempted to answer in the affirmative, but he knew exactly what the next question would be, and so he shook his head.

"No."

"Then can I ask what you're doing parked here?"

"Just waiting for a friend."

Gaze raising briefly, the woman looked around, letting dubiousness flash across her face, before returning to peer in under the headlining. "Strange place to wait. You are aware this is a no standing zone, yes?"

His eyes flicked automatically to the gate behind, appropriate signage reflected in his mirror. Too late, she would have spotted the movement, no way he could feign ignorance now, and he kicked himself for not having a cover story pre-prepared.

"Yes."

"I will need to see your license then please."

Across the road however, another movement had caught his attention, a figure threading its way between cars and walking quickly from the hotel.

"I said, license please."

Dammit, he was a detective, not a spy. Working for the law was normally enough to fend off those of a similar ilk. Well, it was just going to have to do so now as well, even in the North.

Reaching into a suit jacket pocket, Hilshire extracted his wallet, folding it open to show the identification within. "Agent Hilshire, Ministry of the Interior. I'm here on official business."

Outside, the policewoman's eyes flickered across presented credentials, then to Triela, then back to his credentials again.

"Why didn't you say so earlier?" Taking out her own pad, she jotted something down, before holding it up to show his ID number. "I'm sure you won't mind if I just check? Never can be too certain in these times."

Gritting his teeth, Hilshire nodded. "Never can be too certain."

Thank God he had chosen the Ministry card and not Europol, the former he was at least still officially registered with, not to mention the call should be quicker. Stepping away, the woman said something into her shoulder microphone, pausing a second before continuing, holding the pad up to read from it and, in the passenger seat, Triela spoke quietly.

"Vito just walked across the car park."

So it had been him.

"I saw."

From outside came the faint sound of a boxer twin engine starting up, and Hilshire glanced toward his current obstruction, urging her silently to hurry up. Catching his eye, she shrugged, one wrist raised to display her watch.

_Waiting._

God, if he missed Vito as a result of this... and he dared not contact Gaspare with the two police still present.

Finally, the officer seemed to get a reply and, walking back, she leaned down again. "Apologies for the inconvenience Signor Hilshire, you should have just showed your identification first."

Gritting his teeth again, he forced another smile. "Well, as you said, you never can be too certain who is working for whom these days."

The responding expression was slightly cooler. "Not _everyone_ here appreciates the Separatists, but I'll remember that if I ever make detective. Have a lovely day, and best of luck."

Then she was gone, striding back toward her car and, in the distance, the motorcycle engine revved once. Reaching forward, the SWA man cranked his own vehicle to life, as past the Fiat's stern appeared the shape of a bike: a large BMW twin, its rider dressed in a brown leather jacket, helmet obscuring his face.

"That's him."

Triela's statement was confirmation only.

The two police were in their car now and, across the way, Vito's bike slowed, rider standing on foot pegs to peer forward, down its sloped cowling, glancing quickly toward the halted vehicles as he did. The police presence couldn't have fazed him too badly as, approaching the car park kerb he bumped over, threading between concrete bollards and across verge footpath. Dropping safely back onto tarmac, the Padania agent settled into his seat before peeling right, accelerating rapidly away whence Hilshire had previously come.

The police were finally moving as well and, letting them disappear behind the roundabout's central greenery, Hilshire took off in pursuit of his quarry.

"Triela, get on the radio and let Gaspare know what's happening."

Vito had wasted no time piling on distance, brake light already blazing farther up the road as his big tourer slowed for the roundabout. Trying to close, the SWA man accelerated harder as the bike disappeared right, behind the same warehouses the fratello had passed previously.

To his side, he could hear Triela filling their compatriots in. She would have to make it quick before they dropped out of range again though and, approaching the junction also he glanced sideways, checking for traffic, suddenly slamming on brakes harder as he caught sight of his quarry again. Receding up a slip road above rather than into the tunnel entrance, back in toward Turin University, Vito's bike paused before banking left across its gaping maw. Too late, and Hilshire kept the stop pedal down, trying to swing his heavy saloon in pursuit, front wheels sliding onward, coming almost to a halt before it finally responded, accelerating up the same lane before also turning north.

In the distance could be seen Piazza Carducci once more between stone and concrete canyon walls, quarry continuing down the arrow straight road, weaving between traffic. He was going to have to stay closer. Still, for now he had half a minute of good sight lines, and he gestured to Triela to hand over the radio.

"Montenero, Hilshire. Target is headed north along Via Nizza. Recommend you hang back a bit for now, I can stay in contact but he will probably spot me before we reach his destination."

There was a pause.

"_Hilshire, Montenero. Roger that. I'll take up a position on the river flank and try to stay out of sight. Keep me updated."_

"Will do, Hilshire out."

Handing the device back, the detective glanced toward his charge. "You heard, keep him updated, and try to track where Vito goes as well."

"Yes sir."

Ahead, the motorcyclist had made it to the piazza's roundabout, idling between twin lines of cars to the queue's front, forcing the trailing fratello farther astern as lights turned green. Vito wasted no time staying ahead of the traffic's mechanical tide, twin-cylinder roar filtering through the BMW's aged sound deadening as he arced away, charging left and west, toward Turin's centre.

Boxed in by those around, Hilshire could only watch as the bike speared off, speed belying its size, Triela continuing her running commentary. That, he was going to struggle keeping up with and, as vehicles ahead began to peel off the circle, he took the opportunity to drop a gear, pushing the 5-Series forward again, forcing it into gaps he would never have dared risk under any other circumstance.

Despite those efforts however, by the time he crossed north south railway lines, Vito was a dot, disappearing through the gentle curve of an intersection almost half a kilometre ahead.

_His target probably wasn't even going that fast, just he could get up to speed so much quicker, and stay there. If anyone was making a spectacle of themselves, it was himself._

Swerving around another trundling hatchback, Hilshire glanced once more at his cyborg.

"Tell Gaspare he's just gone west around the top of Piazza d'Armie, but we're having trouble maintaining contact."

At the tree lined boulevard's end, traffic lights flicked to yellow, and the handler floored the throttle, shooting between shifting signals. Squeezing through he braked hard to narrowly avoid careening across flower beds dividing the seven-way crossroads, hauling the car left after Vito's path, tyres protesting loudly as inertia tried to carry them on. Finally he got it pointed where he wanted to go and powered away, through the next set of lights, leaving honking horns in his wake.

"Mr. Spada says he's on Corso Rosselli and will try to get forward of us."

_Corso Rosselli, that was the next major road north of here, running parallel. Hopefully Vito would be headed that direction._

Hope was one thing though, reality was another, and with no sign of his suspect ahead he charged on.

"Mr. Spada has him..." Triela's voice suddenly broke through again, "...headed north-west along Corso Raccogni_._"

"Alright, we'll try and get to the west of them."

No chance to slow down then and, as his ward began to relay that, he continued his swerving path through the next roundabout, swinging left and away as the road curved north. Two blocks passed, and he turned in beside the third, getting on a parallel course with the pursued. That would have cost him time though, and tightening streets were not helping matters as they headed into older neighbourhoods , military and commercial buildings melting into terracotta topped residential blocks.

"Turning right into Corso Pescheria."

_Jesus, they were ages ahead of him._

Another block passed.

"Left at Piazza Sabotino."

He could see Corso Pesheria ahead now, a line of traffic forming at the intersection to cross its wide, tree-lined, boulevard.

"Left again into Via Vigone... and he's turning again, Mr. Spada thinks he might have been spotted."

The light turned green, Hilshire's finger tapping rapidly away at the top of the steering wheel as those ahead filtered through and, as it started to go yellow once more, he pushed his way in behind, horn blasting the person in front to clear the road, arcing right on the service lane and back east. They were almost there, if he could just...

"Target's lost."

Slamming on brakes, the detective brought their car to a screeching halt, using its remaining momentum to cost up onto the median between this auxiliary and the boulevard proper, coming to a bouncing rest to overlook its wide intersection with Corso Raccogni. Flicking on hazards he thumped the wheel, they had been so close. Now what? Back to the hotel and wait for Vito to show up again? Assuming he even would?

Across the intersection, ancient apartments rose from the street. Somewhere in there, his suspect had simply disappeared. Digging in the seat pocket behind Triela, he hauled out a city map, quickly finding their location and Vito's last known, motioning for the radio again.

"Montenero, Hilshire. Put yourself on the corner of Via Moretta and Corso Francesco Ferrucci, make sure you can see both streets."

Receiving an affirmative he looked back to the cyborg. "You watch Corso Pesheria, I'll keep an eye on Corso Raccogni. Presuming he has not already, that should let us see if he leaves_._"

"Do you think he will still be on the bike?"

"Probably, hopefully he won't expect anyone this direction."

It was a long shot at best, but Vito was somewhere in the area bounded by those four streets, assuming of course he had not left north or east already before the other handler could move to cover those compass points. However, with a bit of luck, he would still believe Gaspare to be operating on his own and would be more likely to exit through the 'open' west or south flanks, both visible from here.

And, if he didn't exit, then they at least had a rough idea where to start searching.

Tap, tap, tap, went the finger.

Which would take time though.

Tap.

Of course, having to go looking presented its own problems. Detective he may have been, but thanks to the Padan photographers' efforts, his ability to actually employ that skill set was severely hampered, and the last thing they wanted was to spook Vito by accidentally wandering past his window. Gaspare would be similarly useless, plus his background was not exactly one of subtlety.

Tap, tap, tap.

What he needed was someone to do the leg work. Genco wasn't a field agent, plus he remained in Trieste, and Fausto and Carlos were, ultimately, soldiers. Feasibly Jean might be convinced to send him a non-compromised fratello, but he doubted it.

_Which did nothing toward solving his current problem._

Outside, the long summer's afternoon dragged on, traffic picking up as Turin's citizens began to make their way home from work, his 'parked' vehicle attracting the occasional odd look.

At least the police didn't seem to be taking an interest this time.

_The police._

Another thought struck him and, picking up his phone again, he turned once more to Triela.

"The policewoman, did you get her badge number?"

That earned a quick shake of her head. "No, sorry."

"The car then?"

"Four-zero-seven."

"Keep watching, I need to make a call."

Beginning to dial the municipal organisation's headquarters he paused. No, considering where he was, better to disassociate himself slightly farther and, deleting the number, he instead moved to the contacts section, quickly finding that he wanted.

It only rang twice.

"_Hello Victor."_

Seemingly he was making this call too often.

"Genco, are you busy?"

"_Would saying 'yes' make a difference?"_

Ignoring that, the handler continued on. "I need you to look something up."

"_Sure, just let me..."_ From the other end of the line came rummaging noises, before the analyst spoke again. _"Ok, fire away."_

Placing his notepad on a knee, the detective poised his pen above it. "First, I need to know what name Vito was going under for his trips to Turin, and any details you have for that identity..."

"_Easy enough, hold on a tick."_

The muted sound of a mouse followed those words, and Hilshire continued, "...I also need to know who was in _Polizia Municipale Torino_ car four-zero-seven this afternoon, and contact details."

"_Four-zero-seven... that might take a little longer."_ The clicking stopped. _"Ok, Vito was going under Luca Silverio in Turin, no details of where he was staying though, and the phone number is his Primavera one, I'll have to get back to you on part two. How soon do you need it?"_

"As soon as possible."

"_Of course you do."_

"Ring back please."

Hearing an acknowledgement, Hilshire hung up. Now all he could do was wait, and hope he was making the correct decision. Reading people was for the likes of Ricci, but the woman had seemed reliable enough, and the police would at least have a lower chance of harbouring Separatist sympathies. Either way, he needed someone to do the walking sooner rather than later.

Of course, he was still going to have to figure out how to phrase this as well and, turning over possible approaches, he continued to watch passing traffic for any sign of his suspect, markets cramming tarmac across the way not easing his task. That would be the ideal option: should Vito reappear, he would not even need to pursue this particular line of reasoning farther.

If he had to though, the last thing he wanted to do was to try and recruit someone off the cuff. Flicking through contacts in his phone again, his thumb hovered over another briefly, before closing it back to the home screen, and he glanced at his watch instead. No, the long wait was not just his imagination; Genco was certainly taking his time.

Reaching down, the handler picked up his radio.

"Montenero, Hilshire. Have you seen anything?"

There was a brief delay before the reply came back. _"Not a thing, you?"_

"No, I think there is a fair chance our suspect has gone to ground somewhere in there."

"_Well, we can't exactly go walking street to street looking for him."_

In the centre console, his phone rang and, glancing at who it was, he keyed the radio again. "No, we cannot."

Putting the handset back down, he swapped it for the vibrating mobile, raising that latter to his ear.

"Hilshire."

"_Good news,"_ Genco's voice sounded more resigned than excited, _"I managed to track down who was in that car. The people you want are _agente _Marco Petri and _agente scelto _Carlotta Busto."_

"Can you give me the phone number for that last?"

"_I probably can."_

Jotting down digits as they were read out, Hilshire thanked the analyst, before ringing off and picking up his radio again.

"Montenero, Hilshire. I might have an option for us. Hold position for another twenty minutes, if you have not heard from me, clear out. I think we can assume by then Vito has hidden somewhere, or slipped past us."

"_Hilshire, Montenero. Roger that... and sorry for losing him."_

"Hilshire, out."

Radio dropping once more, the German took a deep breath, exhaling slowly; in all reality, he was as guilty as Gaspare for letting their target go, unfair advantage the motorcycle had given or no.

_No more procrastinating._

Finding his phone again, he dialled the number Genco had provided, hitting send before he could think any harder.

This time it was not picked up so quickly but, finally, a familiar female voice answered. "Hello?"

"Hello, am I speaking to _agente scelto _Carlotta Busto?"

"Yes, you are," the tone was cautious, "who is this?"

"This is agent Hilshire, we spoke earlier today. Tell me, were you actually interested in trying for a detective position?"

A pause, but then a reply, even more cautious than before. "Yes."

"Good, I have something I need you to do for me."

* * *

Wedged in amongst dark art nouveau panelling, Hilshire took another sip of beer, light Italian larger barely touching his throat before its glass was returned to be nursed upon the scarred wooden table. If there was one thing he did like about Turin, it was its architecture... easy to find an unobtrusive corner to hide in when he needed it, charcoal grey suit fading into the background beneath dim yellow lamps.

The table was a nice one too, not in an aesthetic sense, but it provided a slender view to the bar's entrance. Peering through hanging smoke haze, a blind eye obviously being turned to Italy's ostensibly strict smoking laws, he could see the last dregs of summer evening beyond finally turning to night, the two fratelli having called off their vigil hours earlier. If Vito had not gone to ground, then he was long disappeared to another part of the city. Of course, if he had slipped by, then they were back to square one, only real option to keep an eye on his companion's hotel and hope he turned up again, which could be a very long shot indeed.

_Not to mention the man would most likely be very suspicious if he saw either car again._

That brought a wry chuckle: chasing spies, not really his game, were he in a movie this was about the point men in suits should have thrown the plucky detective off his case. In the cinema that had seemed incredibly unfair, but really he could have used someone better matched to the role, Ricci, for example, or Pagani, or Alboreto, those with experience in the counter-espionage game, especially if the Padania's man continued his more... competent... displays of awareness. None of those had yet been spotted in photosets dredged from Padan phones however, so his chances of begging any help from that quarter were slim to none.

Still, he would do what he could, starting with leaving Triela in the car. Even with them both on the compromised list, history had proven a split fratello was less readily identifiable, and so split the fratello he had, despite her protestations.

His eyes flicked around the space again, taking in its crowd, mostly adult, young couples and white collars: not to mention bringing a pre-teen here, at this time of night, by himself, may have raised brows. Sweeping their clamour once more, he caught a movement by the door, quickly focusing in on the new arrival. Devoid of a uniform to prompt recognition, the face took a moment to register, only clicking as _agente scelto _Busto stepped fully inside, other heads turning also in evaluation.

Late meeting organised so she could get off shift, police blues had been replaced by wide black trousers and a loose, airy blouse in some satiny fabric, broad collar plunging into a deep v-neck. Pausing on the threshold, the woman shucked off a clean-outlined trench coat, looking around as she did so, and Hilshire gave a small wave above his beer glass. Catching the signal, she draped her light garment over one arm, setting off between tables, heels clicking on the stone floor, cold officer from before seemingly melting away behind swaying hips.

_Hopefully he was making the right decision. Hopefully this one would not be trouble._

Standing as she approached he began to offer a hand, but she moved in, quickly placing fingers on his upper arm to brush a cheek against his, then the other side, and he felt himself stiffen at the contact.

_That was one Italian tradition he had yet to get used to._

"_Buonasera_, _signor_ Hilshire."

Recovering, he gestured to a spare seat, returning the greeting as she settled down. "_Buonasera_, _agente_ _scelto _Busto."

Taking his own position one again, the detective pointed to his glass. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"The house red."

As he flagged down a waiter to place the order, the policewoman rummaged in a pocket, producing a crumpled packet of Nazionalis. "Do you mind?"

"Go ahead." Pausing as she extracted a cigarette and lit up, Hilshire continued. "I must apologise for the late hour."

"No problem my... partner... is out of town anyway." Taking another drag she leaned back, exhaling slowly, smoke wafting in cascades rather than billowing, and the SWA man found himself being evaluated.

Returning the gaze calmly, he ran through his pre-rehearsed arguments. Don't jump the gun, don't scare her off... he really could have used a better judge of people here right now.

Finally, she spoke again. "So...?" Questioning eyebrows went up. "Well? You seem to know my first name, I think it's only fair I get to know yours."

"Victor."

"Well then, _Victor_, what can a humble beat cop do for the Ministry of the Interior?"

_Or he could just dive straight in._

Conversation halting as the waiter returned with Carlotta's drink, Hilshire let the man leave before reaching inside a breast pocket to extract a photo, taken during the Genoa raid, and pushed it forward.

"We're looking for this man."

"I did check the name you gave me, nothing came up for 'Luca Silverio'."

"Not surprising." Across the table she picked up the glossy print, cigarette clasped between two fingers above as it was considered, and he continued. "We think he has a safe house somewhere in the area bounded by Via Moretta and Corso Pesheria, Corso Francesco Ferrucci and Corso Raccogni. I need someone to have a nose around and see if that is true or not."

Looking up from the photo, his companion's brows raised again. "So why not do it yourself, _Signor Detective_? Why call in a stranger, unless of course you had some _other_ cause to see me again?"

"_Reasons."_

Now his eyes met hers, holding the gaze. That he could certainly manage, and finally she glanced down at the photo once more. "Is that so?"

"It is. I recommend you start with checking any cameras in the area, then try asking around once you have narrowed your search. Do it in plain clothes and try to be subtle. My phone number and a list of other aliases we have for Luca are on the back. I will be around Turin for a little longer, so call me when you have something, or if you need more information, or clearances."

"How very... _Bond_."

Flipping the print over, Carlotta studied what was written quickly, before tucking it inside her blouse as, standing, the detective began to do up his jacket. Before he could leave however, a hand shot out to rest on his arm.

"At least let me finish my drink. It would probably look better if we left together."

Taking the limb back hurriedly, the German shook his head. "No, for the same reasons I cannot go asking questions myself, it really would not."

Conceding to another quick brush of cheeks, Hilshire turned on his heel, heading for the door.

_Trouble indeed._


	11. CH10 The Self Preservation Society

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

_With thanks to Officer_Charon for the continued loan of Fausto and Carlos, and Professor Voodoo for the similar ongoing use of Genco Ribisi, and who also owns Elio Alboreto._

* * *

**Chapter 10|The Self Preservation Society**

Standing in the apartment building's back doorway, Hilshire watched Carlotta sway her way across the block's shared central courtyard, form receding between tightly packed cars, crunch of gravel under her heeled boots succumbing beneath chirruping cicadas. Waiting until she disappeared from view, around stone walls onto the far street, he shut the door against afternoon heat, checking it was locked before starting up terrazzo steps. The stairwell's cool darkness was a welcome, if brief, respite from baking summer outside and, digging in a pocket for keys, he reached the third floor landing, rapping out an Agency-standard all clear on one of the scarred wood entries presented.

Stepping under its portal, heat hit him again, boiling through windows thrown wide to catch what little tepid breeze meandered past. At his entrance, Gaspare turned briefly from where he sat in the light from one, before a laptop computer, spare hand lifting from over a discarded holster to wave in welcome. That the German returned, but his comrade was already swivelling back to observation duty, cables trailing from the screen to a spotter's scope atop its tripod, mounted behind the four place table setting to point along scorching tarmac below, a more powerful camera and telephoto lens beside.

Aside from Fleccia's handler however, the apartment's large kitchen, dining, and living space remained deserted, lounge's low-set Dansk furniture empty as its inhabitants cowered away from incessant, energy sapping, heat, or caught up on sleep out of sight in darkened bedrooms. Despite being designed for a family, with six people in total spread across three sets of sleeping accommodation, things were getting cramped, a situation only likely to worsen in the near future.

Sighing, Hilshire turned to the pile of shopping bags which had been stacked on and beside the kitchen bench: evidence of Carlotta's visit. Having located Vito's safe house she had continued to prove useful, 'moving in' as cover for the SWA's arrival and running errands to limit exposure... not to mention leaving them free to keep tabs on their target's door, less than fifty metres distant.

Heaving open the refrigerator, the German spared half a moment to luxuriate in cool air which rolled from its depths, before pulling a bag toward himself, beginning the ongoing game of Tetris which was attempting to fit four adults and two cyborgs worth of food into the confined space.

_Despite earlier misgivings, bringing the policewoman onboard seemed to have been very much the correct decision, though he was going to need to call Ferro about organising the operation a proper budget._

Rearranging shelves for the umpteenth time to squeeze in a pair of fat eggplants, the detective glanced back to where Gaspare was still staring tirelessly at the monocular's image. Had it not been for the occasional sway of a branch one could well have believed the computer to be displaying a still photo rather than real-time feed.

"Did anything happen while I was out?"

Setting his box recording, the Gen Two handler turned once more, feet shuffling carefully past a MSG-90 rifle rested on its bipod, ten round magazine hanging beneath.

"On Vito's end, not at all. Nothing in and nothing out, unless you count the cat jumping over a wall."

"That is two days since we last saw him, are we certain he is still there?"

"I presume so. He could have used another entrance, but if his bike's not been out I doubt he'll have gone far." Now the usually optimistic handler pulled a grimace. "Besides, if he knew we were watching I doubt the Padania would pass up the opportunity to wipe out two more fratelli."

Hilshire didn't reply, that statement's uncomfortable amount of contained truth curtailing any further response: the days of Agency cyborgs being enshrined as unstoppable daemons were long gone. Gathering up empty bags, he laid one out on the bench, smoothing thin plastic down to begin folding it into a tight package as, from the table, Gaspare continued.

"Other than that, Ribisi pulled in with your Section One hacker about ten minutes ago. I've got Fleccia and Triela moving into our room, so they can have the one the girls were using. It's going to be squeezy, but we'll just need to hot bunk or set up camp in here."

Hilshire's eyes glanced toward the lounge area: the sofa wasn't large enough to sleep on, even for a cyborg, slender wooden arms putting paid to any thoughts of letting feet dangle off one end. Besides, trying to sleep so close to their ongoing surveillance wasn't really viable anyway.

"I will see if Carlotta can find some cots, there is probably space between our beds to set two up. Hopefully it will not be for long."

"Well that's why we had Genco and company come down wasn't it?"

The German nodded and, folding the last bag into a neat triangle, he opened a cupboard door to place them with a growing stack of their brethren.

"It was, where did he park?"

"I had him stop out on the street around the back, figured yet another strange car turning up might spook the neighbours."

_And speaking of Genco..._

Closing the cupboard again, Hilshire made his way to the lounge, crouching down to open a duffel which had been stowed beside the low coffee table as Gaspare returned to his own task. Unzipping it, he extracted a small stack of folders, placing them on lightly varnished wood. Despite best intentions, communication between Turin and Trieste had not always been smooth, or regular, so a chance to compare notes would not go astray.

"Not precisely spacious is it?"

A glance up found Genco just entering the room, Raffele Bollai in tow, that utterance having come from the latter. Standing, Hilshire held out a hand, speaking as they shook.

"Only because we are trying to fit so many people in, unfortunately it was the best we could do on short notice."

"Well, beggars can't be choosers, I guess even Section Two has to watch its purse strings from time to time."

Ignoring that jab, the detective turned his attention to Genco. "Thank you for your help so far, and for bringing Raffele down."

The analyst made a slightly embarrassed shrug. "It was nothing, and it's nice to get out of the office from time to time."

That drew a grin from the hacker standing beside him. "That's what _you_ say, I don't know how many desk drivers would share that opinion."

"Well most desk drivers probably don't continually get stories from..."

He tailed off, following the action with another embarrassed shrug, Section One man watching him curiously.

Feeling silence descend, Hilshire motioned to the coffee table with its accompanying sofa and chairs. "Now that we are in the same place, I think it might be wise if we compare notes before proceeding any further, and there are a few things I need you to look up and check before actually making a move. Can I offer either of you a drink or something to eat before we get started?"

There was a general shaking of heads, but Genco answered. "I think we'd both like to know what we're in for."

Giving both new arrivals a moment to settle, the detective took the sofa opposite, glancing between wafting curtains behind them as he leaned forward, pushing an open manila folder across the table, a photo laid atop its stacked papers.

"You have probably managed to get a rough idea of what has been going on by the questions coming back to Trieste, but the short version is your tipoff regarding Cifa Risso was a good one. We found Vito in the company of this woman." He tapped the photo. "So far we have no leads on her, so her identity was the first thing I need you working on, or if either of you have come across someone who matches her appearance in your travels?"

Genco had produced a notebook somewhere through the explanation, rapidly jotting down dot points as the Section One man beside him followed suit on a bright orange phone. Leaning forward, the analyst studied the picture, his pistol, Hilshire noted, jutting up against light shirt fabric where it was holstered at his four o'clock.

"Can't say I have..." something in the tone however drew a sharp look, but he let it slide as the young man continued, "...I did do some digging on Cifa Risso, which may give us a starting point: they're a Lloyds underwriter, primarily dealing in industrial and commercial operations... so big stuff. If she _is_ from the business community though, you have to wonder what about her has drawn the Padania's interest, or is she fronting for the Padania on some purchase of their own?"

The German shook his head. "I do not think she is fronting for the Padania. The way Vito was acting made it seem he was more there to monitor proceedings than he was to keep her safe or, at least, he was not displaying any spycraft whilst in her presence I could discern."

"Playing a good little business assistant."

"It would appear so. Either way, I would like to know who she is before making any moves on Vito in case we accidentally worsen the situation."

Since sitting down, Raffele had been watching the pair talk closely, still tapping away at his phone, but now he spoke up. "If you give me somewhere more private to work, I can start setting up to have a nose around Cifa Risso myself. With a bit of time I can probably get a client list or something, maybe line up her visit with someone's appointments, like we did with Vito."

Hilshire however shook his head. "Unfortunately, time is not something I think we have in great supply right now, and I brought you down for a different job anyway."

"Is that so?"

"Going to give you pair of basement-dwellers a taste of field work." Gaspare's voice drifted over from the window again, and the three glanced toward him, staffers' faces hovering between interest and uncertainty, though whether at the prospect of getting their hands dirty or the apparent attitude was unclear. Tapping on light wood to draw their attention back, the closer handler continued.

"Yes. There is good reason we are crammed into this apartment and not somewhere better suited to our numbers."

Genco was quick to get in on the conversation again. "I assume that has something to do with why we were told to park around the back?"

"It does. Vito's safe house is about fifty metres up the road from here, we managed to track him to it after he split up with his contact, though he does not seem to have met her since. That said, we have not got access to the resources to safely tail him when he leaves, so are holding off until it is absolutely necessary."

Now it was Raffele's turn to take on the slightly high-handed tone. "So you're just leaving it to chance that he _will_ come back? I don't do field work, but I doubt that would fly in _Section One_."

"Well _Section_ _One_ has more operatives, and hasn't been the subject of a concerted effort to try and root it out either."

Genco's words came slightly heated, but Hilshire let the jab slide again, pushing ahead with his briefing instead before either could make another retort.

"Unfortunately it is all we can do right now. As much as I would like Ricci, Alboreto, or the Blackers here, Lorenzo is not about to risk putting any of them with a pair of compromised fratelli." The hacker's ears pricked up at mention of that last fratello's name, and the detective gave himself a mental kick for letting it slip. If Section Two's personnel were generally ill informed regarding Jethro and Monty's activities, it was nothing to the information blackout beyond the cybernetics arm's walls, and he forged on. "Either way, we can only work with what we have. We are beginning to get a handle on Vito's routine, or at least as close to one as he has displayed and, as before, I do not think we have the time for extended observation."

"And so you're going to go in half cocked instead."

"Call it that if you like." The words came out sharper than intended and, feeling his patience beginning to wear thin, Hilshire took a mental breath before continuing. "We suspect Vito probably went to ground here after our impromptu raid on Primavera. If that is the case however, it probably will not take much to spook him again." He gestured around the apartment. "We might get away with this for a few more weeks, but I do not think we can expect to go undetected much longer."

"For that matter, how did you get here in the first place?" Genco's voice this time.

"Local contact."

Now Raffele spoke up once more, words calmer again. "Okay, I can see why you brought Ribisi, but all this still doesn't explain why you wanted me as well. I would have thought the extra person would only complicate matters."

"I wanted you here because I presume Vito will have some sort of computer in his safe house, a desktop, laptop, hard drive... something. If he does, I do not want to be making second visits or giving him opportunity to destroy data, so we need to break into those machines first time. That is why you are here."

A trace of uncertainty flashed across the hacker's face at that. "You realise I did not exactly come equipped to go playing cat burglar."

"Triela and Fleccia will be on point, you just need to deal with any machines of Vito's."

"_Just _the cyborgs?"

"Not _just_ the cyborgs, both handlers will be there also, as will Genco. We have yet to finalise plans, but at the moment Triela and myself will probably go in first, then you with Gaspare and Fleccia as escort. That is still fluid at the moment, Vito seems to be avoiding any unnecessary exposure, though when he does leave the trips are a decent duration, an hour at least. We will have the SRT tail him to be certain, unless I can get resources from elsewhere."

Genco, who had been listening in, now raised his eyebrows. "Your local contact?"

"Maybe, we shall see."

In the other chair, Raffele's expression had gone from unsure to annoyed. "An hour, you realise of course that hacking doesn't happen like in the movies right? I can't just snap my fingers and give you full access to someone's system. You saw what we were doing in Trieste, this shit takes time."

"Unfortunately that sort of time is not a luxury we have, surely there are a few tricks you can try?"

"Oh yeah sure, if I wanted to package up code and script kiddie, but it's less than a perfect solution."

"World's imperfect out here in the wild grasshopper, sometimes you just have to make do."

The Section One man's head swung around toward Gaspare again and, in his own seat, Genco leaned back involuntarily, out of the way of their conversation as the former pointed toward the rifle propped up at his opposite's feet.

"I don't see _you_ getting ready to machinegun the street in order to take out one bloke, _I_ don't like bringing the wrong tools for the job either."

Across the table, Hilshire cleared his throat, intervening again. "Be that as it may, like you said, I _have _seen the proper tools being used, but we also cannot ask Vito if he could kindly stay out for an extra hour. I can try to give you as much opportunity to prepare as possible, but be aware I cannot guarantee either that time, nor time to work once we are in."

Raffele's attention however had wandered again, this time behind the handler to where Fleccia had just walked through from the bedrooms, red hair framing a freckled face, its tips brushing her shoulders, and Genco noted he seemed to tense in his chair.

"Uhh... sure. It's just not the best way to go about things, but I'll... see what I can do." His words were suddenly distracted.

The cyborg had however also noticed the new arrivals and, shifting a pile of books to one arm, used the other to give a small, lethargic wave. "Hello Mr. Ribisi, Gaspare said you were coming down."

"Yes, for a few days."

Glancing from her handler to Hilshire, she apparently decided to stop there, hefting books again and wandering over to the kitchen table, saying something quietly to her own custodian as she arrived which received a brief shake of the head. Instead of sitting behind the computer, she found a seat which would allow her a view down the street, opening a note pad and heavy volume before her.

Standing himself, Gaspare looked across at the seated group. "Well, I'm going to have a shower and find somewhere cooler to work."

Nodding at his compatriot, the other handler turned back to the two staffers. "I do not have much more to say either. Did you have any questions?"

Raffele shook his head, still looking unhappy, and Genco followed suit, leaning forward to gather up the folder as he did so. "Not that I can think of immediately, I'll take a look through this though and see if I can't add anything."

"Good." Standing, Hilshire glanced toward the hacker. "Get settled and see what you can do toward preparation. I apologise for the lack of time and certainty, but we will have to make do."

That got an affirmative, if still reluctant, response and, apparently accepting it, he followed off toward the bedrooms.

Silence fell, street noise from below mixing with the drone of cicadas pouring past gossamer fabric. Opening the folder again, Genco was suddenly aware of the room's other remaining adult leaning over to him and, when he spoke, Raffele's voice was low.

"How on earth do you act so naturally around, well..." he jerked his thumb toward where Fleccia was sitting, her back to them, "...with _that_? The handlers sure, but..."

He tailed off and, staring blankly for a moment, the analyst took a moment to comprehend what had been asked. How _did_ he... after the initial shock of Section Two's business wore off, he had not really seen the girls as anything other than just what they were: young girls. Maybe it was a self defence mechanism, but there was certainly nothing he found discomforting about them anymore.

"The cyborgs? They're just as human as anyone else."

"But..."

"Have you ever actually talked to them?"

"Well..."

A twinge of annoyance flicked across his thoughts, and he continued, loudly enough that his voice would carry to the kitchen. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

Standing quickly so the other man would not have time to protest, he moved across to the table, Raffele, seemingly following the conventions of politeness he had just been entrapped by, in tow.

Sitting down in the position vacated by Gaspare, he leaned into Fleccia's view. "Hello again."

Looking up from her book, the girl nodded an acknowledgement. "Hello, did you have a good trip?"

"Easy enough, and I've brought a new friend for you." At the light tone a twitch of annoyance flickered across the red head's face, but it escaped Genco's attention as he continued. "Fleccia, this is Raffele Bollai, from Section One. Raffele, this is Fleccia, Gaspare's cyborg."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bollai."

"Umm, likewise."

"Take a seat Raff." The analyst's words remained bright, full of polite, helpful, innocence and, apparently realising he would not be escaping quickly, the hacker slid into a chair opposite his new acquaintance.

Leaning in, Genco studied her notebook. "What're you working on?"

_That _question received a grimace.

"_History..._" glancing around with a furtive expression to see she remained unobserved, Fleccia's low tone became a grumble, "...just my luck, getting sent on assignment with the one handler who will keep giving out homework... but don't tell Triela I said so."

He hid a grin at that: frankly, Section Two's Princess would probably level the same complaint, though not in public. Face remaining sober however, he shrugged. "No harm in learning history."

"I don't see what use it's going to be to _me_."

"It stood us in pretty good stead during the Roman Sniper incident. If Mr. Hilshire and Mr. Blacker had not been up on their history, we would not have wrapped that one up anywhere near so quickly."

"Which is well and good for Triela and _Monty_, but I could do without."

"What particular part of history?"

Before she could answer however, Raffele blurted, "So you... do observation work too?"

Two sets of eyes turned his direction, and the man seemed to shrink, as if realising just how silly that had sounded, and he rushed to qualify. "I mean, I thought cyborgs were, well... were weapons."

"It depends on the cyborg, and her handler." Internally, Genco breathed a sigh of relief as the girl replied matter-of-factly. Jesus, he hadn't considered that: some others may have taken offence. Fortunately though they had got Fleccia and, with Gaspare hailing from a military background, that statement had not been received as quite the insult it could have. "But yeah, Gaspare lets me do some other things, usually when there's not much chance anything will happen, like now."

"It depends on what the fratello in question is tasked with as well," added the analyst, "and, frankly, we're finding that fratelli who can only door kick are becoming less useful, which is why the second generation was made to be a bit more flexible than the first. Perhaps ironically, there are also more specialists amongst the Second Gens."

The hacker however appeared fixated on the girl. "And are you..."

"Second generation, yes. You can tell, we look older... though we still get the same _lessons_ as the young ones."

"Most of the Generation Ones are technically around your age or better."

"Yes, but they still _act_ like little girls."

That Genco did not answer, but he would be interested to hear Triela's view on the statement, wherever the senior cyborg had disappeared to. Across the table, Raffele also had gone silent, gaze directed out the window, occasionally flicking back to the teenager opposite, before just as quickly turning away once more. Frankly, he wasn't certain if that was making headway with the man or not and, leaning in again, he went back to his previous question.

"So, what part of history has Mr. Hilshire got you learning?"

"Central American."

Not really his area of expertise, and he fought for something to say.

"Sounds... interesting."

"It's doing my head in, I don't rote memorise well." She thumped at the textbook. "I mean, what use is Central American history to me? Italian history, Roman history, ok, I'll pay that, but Aztecs and Conquistadors? See if you can make any sense of it."

Turing the book around, she laid it out for him to read, small text arranged tightly around black and white lithographs, and Genco stifled another chuckle. He had a great deal of respect for Victor Hilshire, but trust the German to find the dustiest, dullest, least interesting way possible to tell what should have been a very exciting story. Still, tactics for rote memorisation were something he _could_ help with...

"Give me a look?"

Across the table, Raffele was leaning in also, face set, but apparently intent on trying to show willing after his earlier blunder. The interruption was apparently as much a surprise to Fleccia, her own attention snapping to him, and the hacker went on, seemingly beset by the need to explain.

"I... did a project on the Aztecs in high school, so I might, uhh, might be able to help."

Well, it was a start.

* * *

Despite Turin's summer days having turned also to torturous heat, night still brought with it some level of relief, long evening hours giving time for warmth trapped by sun drenched stone to leak away, leaving in their wake a comfortable cool. Standing on a balcony to look down into the paved courtyard below, Hilshire shifted to take a sip of coffee, before leaning more heavily on the rail. Even the cicadas had quieted, occasional chirrup reminding those listening to enjoy the peace while it lasted.

_While the peace lasted._

Bringing Raffele had been a gamble, but he had seemed amiable enough in Trieste. Here though, out of his element perhaps, the interdepartmental divide was obviously still very much alive, running strong under the surface, and Gaspare's newly spiky attitude was not helping. That brought an internal grimace: not what he had expected from the normally optimistic handler. Was this the sort of thing Jean contended with every time he put an operation together? If so, he was not certain he was entirely up to it, and Jean at least had the option to pull rank.

Now he really did scowl, taking another sip from his glass in the process. For that matter, he had not precisely been prepared to run an operation full stop, but rather had become a victim of his own investigation snowballing. Eight people and counting was a far cry from only needing to worry about Triela.

At that thought, he glanced back to where the girl in question was sitting, currently engrossed in her book, killing time while Gaspare and Fleccia took their first turn in bed, and he stifled a yawn. Yet another thing not planned for, leaving his own fratello doing an extra stint awake while they switched shifts.

...And speaking of which, he glanced at his watch, he needed to get some time in looking through what information had been brought from Trieste before taking over on the monocular.

Turning away from the darkened courtyard, his passage was however interrupted as one of the small balcony's French doors squeaked open, hallway behind spilling light out amongst the few scattered windows still burning against darkened walls. From the gap squeezed Genco, folder held in his trailing arm. Glancing between assembled fratello members, the analyst let his gaze come to rest on Hilshire.

"Do you have a moment, Victor?"

"Of course."

Stepping over to the small table Triela resided at, he placed the folder down, positioning it to sit in the lance of illumination still escaping from between heavy curtains and, when he spoke, his voice was low.

"How long ago was the last update you sent Monty?"

"I sent everything we had found regarding Primavera and Vito before leaving Trieste, but nothing since."

That got a wry smile. "She may be chomping at the bit for another download by now."

"Maybe, but I have also heard nothing back. She and Jethro seem to have done their usual disappearing act... and I am finally beginning to understand why it annoys Jean so much."

"So she hasn't seen any of this yet?"

"No. I was going to wait until we had been through Vito's place."

Extracting the glossy print which had headlined their earlier conversation, Genco placed it in the light. "Well, that explains that then. I didn't want to say too much in front of Raff, but there is no need to run a check on this woman. I _do_ recognise her: this is Eleni Anagnos, CEO of Anagnos Shipping out of Greek Cyprus."

"That name is familiar."

"It should be: it was one of their ships Monty saw being loaded in Ukraine, and the same vessel again we raided as a result in Genoa." He paused, leaving a beat for effect, and Hilshire found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Perhaps more to the point however, it was whilst targeting Eleni that the Blackers first encountered Vito, though they could only guess at any connection at the time."

Picking up the picture, the detective studied it more closely. He remembered the Anagnos name now, had there even been a picture of its CEO in Monty's packet? God, it felt like that long ago he would have to dig up his notes from the original briefing, seemingly aeons past in the SWA's Spook Pit.

Another thought occurred to him. "If she is from a shipping company, then her visiting Cifa Risso makes more sense."

"It does, and seeing her here with Vito also suggests some answers to one of our earlier question as to whether his primary interest was in Anagnos or the Blackers. Suffice to say, I think it's a reasonable assumption he was tailing them in Cyprus because they visited Eleni, rather than due to any particular business with them personally."

"I am sure that will be some relief."

"I suspect so."

Suddenly very aware of how exposed they themselves were, Hilshire slid the photo back out of sight, before crouching down to bring himself eye to eye with the seated analyst and cyborg, voice lowering. "If Vito's interest was not in the Blackers though, what _is_ his interest in Eleni? Her company is under Padania control, but he does not seem to be protecting her or acting in a security function when we have seen them together. In fact, I would go so far to say that he was deliberately avoiding any actions which may give away his background."

Looking up from her book, Triela piped up. "Could Ms. Anagnos not know what he is?"

"Possibly, or he does not want to draw attention to himself. Having someone not of Italian descent present would make good cover for carrying out insurgent activities. "

"I would hazard a guess and say it was a bit all the above," put in Genco, leaning toward the group. "Jethro and Monty theorised he was there to ride herd on Eleni were _they_ not his target, and what you're saying supports that somewhat. Anagnos Shipping itself was on the edge of filing for bankruptcy when it was taken over by Marittima Italiana, so it is entirely possible the takeover was not friendly, and Eleni has no stake in the Padania's fight herself. If they're using the company bearing her name to do their dirty work, they may well wish to ensure she doesn't suddenly develop cold feet."

"And I think all the evidence suggests Anagnos _is_ being used to do the Padania's dirty work. Questions of loyalty notwithstanding, having Vito associated would make for easier monitoring of any operations being channelled through it." Hilshire took another sip from his cup, last grinds coursing bitterly across his tongue. "It is a little concerning just how much global reach that would give them."

"Running global operations, and yet he still has time to recruit local muscle? We have always known the Padania had to be receiving support from, and pursuing interests, beyond Italy's borders, if we didn't there would have been no Blackers to kick this whole thing off to begin with. However, if Vito has time to steer those operations, _and _recruit on the ground, their global interests may not be as extensive as we previously suspected."

"He does not necessarily need to have a hand in all of them, and from talking to Anasetti's associates we gather his recruitment began long before he ever arrived back in Italy. The Padania leadership is wealthy: they have plenty of reason to travel and make contacts overseas themselves, probably write it off as a business expense. The organisation can spread that load easily enough." He paused, another thought floating to the surface. "It is entirely possible Vito manages their more clandestine work however, or those operations which cannot be run through an existing legitimate front. When you get a chance, see if Anagnos or any of its associated companies was helping supply the military where Anasetti's unit was operating. If they were, it may give us a lead on where he made contact, and who else may be at risk."

As Genco pulled out his notepad again to scribble that down Triela, who had apparently still been listening, spoke again. "So does this mean a change of plans?"

Hilshire shook his head. "No. In fact, I think getting Vito and whatever data he may have in that safe house has just become more urgent than ever."

* * *

Leaning forward, Hilshire peered closer at the monocular's feed, Vito's window a warm, bright, patch against cold pre-dawn light. On it, a shadowy figure moved behind drawn sheer curtains, carrying something which it placed down on what, presumably, was a bed, pushing hard as if forcing the burden into some smaller container.

"Looks like he is getting ready to leave."

"Better not be another fucking false alarm."

"Language."

Behind him, the massive form of Fausto Martinello straightened from where it had been craning in to see what the fuss was about and, while his eyes did not leave the monitor, Hilshire could picture the sheepish expression he would be wearing.

"Sorry, Ms. Triela."

Letting their exchange finish, the handler spoke again. "Fausto, go raise the others. Send Gaspare in here, then you and Carlos get ready to tail Vito."

"Onnit Boss."

SRT commando leaving after his assigned task, Hilshire returned to watching as the shadowy figure passed once again by its window. Whatever he was up to, Vito wasn't rushing, it was perhaps a little earlier than they were used to seeing him mobile, but the movements showed no urgency.

They had not shown any urgency the last few times though either, each ending in long waits and frayed tempers as their promised mark failed to appear.

_But the early start..._

False alarm or no however, soon the SWA's apartment was beginning to rouse itself, Gaspare first to appear, the former paratrooper zipping up a canvas jacket to conceal his plate carrier, black duffel in hand. Putting the bag down with a clatter, he leaned over the German's shoulder.

"We're for real this time?"

"I hope so."

"If not I say we just go in there and drag that _stronzo _out anyway."

Hilshire twisted around, the option was certainly becoming more tempting with each passing day, however...

"Fausto and Carlos can grab him, but only once we are sure any data he may have is secured."

That received an unimpressed sound in reply and, standing, the detective motioned to his vacated seat. "Take over while I go and get Genco and Raffele moving."

Leaving Gaspare to slide soundlessly into position he headed for the bedrooms, pausing at the hall entrance to let their two SRT escorts pass, followed by Fleccia, that latter in the process of doing up a rig almost identical to her handler's.

The staff types were already awake, but only part dressed, very obviously bereft the instant alertness enjoyed by those arriving from military backgrounds and, quietly, the detective could not blame them. Were their positions reversed, it was highly doubtful _he_ would have fared any better.

Rapping once on the doorframe he stepped through, trying for his best Jean Croce impression. "Are you two ready yet?"

Looking over from where he was helping Raffele into a bullet proof vest, Genco nodded. "Just about."

The hacker seemed less pleased, words coming out in a grumble. "What does it matter if we are or are not? We're just going to wind up sitting around, waiting for nothing to happen, anyway."

"Whether we do or _do not_ is not for you to decide." He paused, changing gears. "You remember what you are supposed to do?"

"Yes..." the word had a singsong tetchiness to it, "...we wait here with Gaspare and his cyborg until you are in the building, and they will take us across. Then we wait _again_ until you have cleared Vito's apartment, and will be escorted up."

"Good, and?"

This time it was Genco who answered, his tone less sarcastic. "And don't shoot at anything unless Gaspare or Fleccia tell us to, or it shoots first."

"Good again, I will see you outside in five minutes."

Leaving them be, Hilshire moved into his own shared room. Sitting on one of the cots crammed between two proper beds, he fired off a text message which would hopefully result in the Police leaving their area alone, presuming Carlotta was awake to receive it.

Stripping off to place flexible body armour beneath shirt and tie, the detective rummaged in a draw to extract a radio, running the device's wire against Kevlar weave to appear from his collar, before setting its attached ear bug in place. God he hoped he was doing this right, the last thing the SWA needed was another dead fratello, and should he get Raffele killed, then who knew how Section One would react. On went a shoulder holster, quick check of his pistol finding it loaded, then the suit jacket was replaced and, taking a deep breath, he strode back toward the living area.

Fausto and Carlos were already gone, their priorities lying elsewhere with a beaten, SWA supplied, Renault Twingo, but Triela was waiting for him, heavy shotgun case slung over one shoulder, and he knelt down before her. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Of course."

"Just... be careful."

"Of _course_."

The handler paused, trying to think of something else to say in reply. Nothing made itself apparent however and, clearing his throat, he stood again as Genco and Raffele entered the room, the latter still fiddling with his vest. Nodding an acknowledgement, he touched his earpiece.

"Alright, radio check."

Replies came back one by one, fading away to leave another awkward silence, broken only by a thud as Raffele settled heavily into one of the comfortable wood and fabric armchairs. Obviously he did not expect to be going anywhere in a hurry.

Another minute passed and, studying his watch intently, Hilshire traced the seconds hand as it climbed again toward the twelve o'clock marker. The hacker may yet be correct...

Suddenly, Gaspare shifted. "Hang on, there's movement."

Five heads snapped around as, from street level, drifted the distinctive note of a boxer twin, echoing clearly between stone facades. No-one spoke, ears straining as the engine revved once, twice, before coming on strong and accelerating away, receding into the distance.

"And there he goes, headed down the road, away from us."

Activating his radio again, Hilshire spoke quickly. "Tupo Uno, Zero Alpha. Target is moving west, your direction."

"_Tupo Uno, roger that Zero Alpha."_ There was a pause. _"Alright, we have him, moving to pursue, we'll give you a call if anything changes."_

"Roger that Tupo Uno, we will do the same. Zero Alpha, out." Looking around the room he caught each set of eyes in turn, now suddenly more alert than they had been in days. "We are probably only going to get one shot at this, any neighbour with eyes and ears will know something is up. Once is risky enough, so let's get it right now and not need to try a second time."

Silence followed and, again devoid of anything more to say, he headed for the door, ushering Triela before him, merely human ears missing the muttered comment about a stirring pep talk trailing behind.

It was only a short trip down, and soon the fratello was stepping onto quiet pavements. Grey dawn light was strengthening now, picking out the shapes of parked cars and buildings above in dull relief. It was a static scene, the city deserted at this hour, its citizenry sound asleep, occasional far off engine and clack of rail carriages the only reminders that anyone existed here at all. Through the empty landscape the fratello's small figures threaded, past motionless vehicles, Triela's long trench coat billowing around bare legs, and Hilshire was suddenly acutely aware of how much they must stand out. Pausing opposite Vito's building, he scanned windows above, looking for signs of life and, finding none, hurried across the street, cyborg in tow. A flat metal card dealt with the main entry lock and, slipping inside, he looked around. This building was newer than that the SWA contingent had set up in, wide lobby running right through to a glass door leading onto the block's central courtyard, another corridor branching off to one side just before. Above, concrete stairs spiralled upward, atrium's full height visible between steel balustrading.

"Montenero, Zero Alpha. We're inside, lobby seems clear, moving on."

Gaspare's response was quick arriving. _"Roger that, I'll start bringing the rest across now."_

"Come on."

Moving up the stair, the detective slowed to a more casual pace, for all the good it would do: visitors at this time of the morning were hardly a normal occurrence. Still, the thought was there and, counting off landings, they finally reached that corresponding to Vito's floor. Looking around he paused, scanning doors on either side, trying to match them against the mental image he had of the building's facade. Four doors, four apartments... he could hardly mess that up and, selecting an entry on the front wall, farthest from the SWA encampment, he motioned Triela over.

"It should be this one."

"Do you want me to break it down?"

There was a heartbeat's pause.

"No, people are still asleep, let's not cause a commotion. You _can_ start getting ready though, but keep an eye out."

"Yes, sir."

Her reply was equally quiet and, kneeling down, back to him, she began to unzip her shotgun case. Returning to the door, Hilshire inspected its frame quickly. No chance of using the card here and, instead extracting a set of lock picks, he set to work.

Hopefully he would be quick enough.

* * *

Standing quietly in shadow, Genco fingered the strap of his heavy rucksack nervously. Leading their trailing contingent, Gaspare had bypassed the apartment block's main entrance, instead levering open its vehicle gate to halt in an open alley, leading toward another shared courtyard. Along the nearer wall, individual garages faced onto the drive, the presence of which probably explained why Vito had chosen this particular building to begin with.

The hiding spot they provided however was fast disappearing as the sun began to rise, and he slunk closer to cool brickwork. Nearer the building's rear, Gaspare and Fleccia had taken up position by another doorway, already coerced open. With their arrival, any semblance of civilian mores had been dispensed with, black duffel disgorging two P90 submachine guns, long suppressors affixed to normally stubby barrels and, releasing the strap, he extracted his own pistol, quickly checking it had a round chambered and the safety off. Beside their escorting fratello's futuristic looking weapons, the little Beretta 1934 appeared decidedly old-fashioned, but the movements for its operation were coming more naturally now... almost.

Glancing around, he found the shape of Raffele standing between him and Fleccia. If he was combating a sense of displacement, it was nothing compared to what the hacker seemed to be enduring, computer bag gripped tightly in one hand, other free to fidget and, taking pity, the analyst sidled over.

"Don't worry, the Hilshire and Spada fratelli are some of the best we've got."

The other man's eyes flicked his direction, words coming shortly after, sarcastic tone somewhat ruined by an insistent quaver. "So good that an analyst needs to go armed as well? Some safety _there_. Do all desk jockeys in Section Two feel required to defend themselves?"

Genco glanced down at his gun again, remembering just in time not to rise to the bait. "Not all."

"Then what makes you so special."

"_Reasons."_

Conversation halted again, stalling as Raffele appeared to search for a response.

Fortunately he was not given opportunity as their earpieces crackled. _"Montenero, Zero Alpha. We are in, you can bring them up. Third floor, first apartment on your right."_

Pushing the door open, Gaspare held it as Fleccia advanced swiftly through, gun shouldered, zipper on her coat parting the only noise as she went. Moments later, her voice echoed quietly back out of the darkened passage.

"Clear."

Still holding the door, her handler's attention turned to his temporary wards. "Alright cupcakes, let's move."

Genco jerked his head toward the door. "Go on, you're better off closest to Fleccia."

There was the slightest hesitation from the Section One man, but he recovered quickly, moving forward behind the cyborg, disappearing into gloom beyond. Gun still drawn, the analyst made to follow, but found himself halted by the waiting commando.

"Put that away, before you hurt someone with it."

Glancing down at his pistol again he caught the other man's expression, and slipped it back into its holster without argument, before taking off after his compatriots.

Fleccia had already reached the corridor's far end, P90 pointed straight down as she peeked around the corner, waiting for her handler to catch up before ushering them out into the deserted lobby and up stairs at its centre. The first flight disappeared beneath hasty footsteps without incident, but the morning was beginning to get on, early hours' peaceful quiet slipping away and, as they reached the second landing, the clack of a door opening sounded above.

On point, the cyborg froze, glancing back along the line of people to her handler at its tail as voices wafted down toward them, and he motioned her to keep going: nothing to gain in stopping, nowhere to hide.

Her pace quickened, and Genco found himself beginning to struggle. No matter how hard he tried, at this speed each footfall sounded like the thunder of elephants, someone was _going_ to hear them. The voices had quieted now, though it was difficult to tell over the more personal noises filling his ears and, reaching the third floor landing, Fleccia paused once more, submachine gun held low so she could peer over the balustrade. Finding it still clear she moved hastily forward to Vito's door, rapping out an urgent 'all clear'. Pulling up behind her, the analyst listened hard, trying for a tense few seconds to pick up evidence of someone descending from above.

He never got the chance to find out if their upward charge had been a false alarm or not however, and the door swung open, Triela beckoning them through, cyborg escort again leading inside.

Safely out of sight, the girl's tense stance melted away, movements relaxing as she traipsed down a short hallway into this new space's living area.

"Special delivery."

Following her and Raffele, he looked around, taking in cheap, Spartan, furnishings, scattered across a polished terrazzo floor. This was obviously a place meant to be slept in and little else. A kitchen occupied one end of the room, but no table accompanied it. Instead, against one outside wall, a computer desk had been positioned so as to... Genco walked over... yes, so as to give its occupant a view onto the garages they had just come from. A few near-empty folders were stacked up by scuffed plasterboard but, before he could pick one up, Hilshire spoke from the doorway, words addressed to Gaspare who had again brought up the rear.

"Did anyone see you on your way in?"

"Not that I noticed."

"Good." The German now looked around. "Triela and I have already given the apartment a once over, and it appears to be clear, but be careful. Triela, with me."

Seemingly without anything more to say he turned away, and Genco bent down, collecting a folder to leaf through its contained thin sheaf of paper. Not much to go on, they looked like simple household records, but if that was all he had, then that was all he had. Unfortunately he also seemed unlikely to find anywhere to work other than the floor and, retrieving the remaining files, he spread them out across a sunlit patch of cool terrazzo, opening the first to its front page. Unshipping his rucksack he released the canvas top flap, extracting a set of aluminium rods which were screwed to a light frame and placed over the folder. Next the group's high quality DSLR slotted into place, telephoto setup replaced by a flat prime lens. Connecting a remote shutter release, the intelligence analyst turned it on and, checking it remained at full auto, hit the lead's button, hearing its mirror cycle.

Standing again in the doorway, Hilshire watched as he leaned forward to flip the pages over before photographing the next spread, and shook his head: technology had come a long way, but how it was applied remained rudimentary at best. Triela had been tasked to searching a similarly sparely furnished bedroom and bathroom, but his own attention was required elsewhere.

Opposite Genco, by the room's far wall, Raffele was crouched down, fiddling with something near the floor. Finally standing, he moved back to the computer desk, setting the cheap all-in-one machine it supported booting, own laptop already humming away beside. Walking closer, the detective inspected what had been left behind; a small box, now placed between the phone connection and router cable.

"It's an interrupt." Turning, Hilshire found the hacker watching his movements, laying a hand on his machine as he continued. "It monitors line traffic so I can watch it here. I'll put something a bit more discreet in place once I'm into his box, but that will cover us for now. If Vito's computer tries screaming for help, or if someone tries sending data to it, I will know and, perhaps more to the point, be able to stop it, change it, or whatever else I feel like doing."

"And you can read that?"

"If it's not encrypted, but the final version will sit before anything like that."

A sly grin accompanied those last words, the tension and caustic attitude which had been such a chore contending with over the previous few days now dissipated. Whether that was because he was back in his element, or due to the lack of cyborgs currently present however, remained unclear.

Opportunity to find which did not take long long in presenting itself and, as the sentence trailed off, Fleccia ambled through the doorway, jacket removed and P90 hanging toward the floor from a sling around her neck. Their charges safely delivered, there was little for the more combat-biased fratello to do other than continue playing bodyguard. Wandering over to the computer desk as well, she leaned in, hands folded casually on her weapon's short buttstock.

"Are you in yet?"

"Give me a break, the computer's a heap of junk, so will take awhile to boot again." The words still had a tetchy edge, but there was barely a flinch this time; maybe being cooped up with the pair of girls had done him some good, and the next came out in a steadier tone again. "There we go, password screen. This _is _a Windows box, so if Plan A doesn't fly I've a pretty solid set of rainbow tables but, since we don't need to start from scratch..."

Spinning to his own laptop, the hacker selected a file, replacing part of the code in the text editor window it opened, before closing that and moving to another, fingers blurring before slamming 'enter' with an air of finality.

"Ok, give that a moment to compile."

"And that will break into his computer?" Fleccia was speaking again, and Hilshire let her, taking a step backward. Raffele seemed to find her the less threatening presence, which was probably an improvement, though an obvious battle was still being fought behind his eyes. For now however, the urge to teach an interested party seemingly trumped any lingering discomfiture at her cybernetic nature.

"Hardly," now his eyes _did_ flick to Hilshire, and he continued, "you've not given me a lot of time, so I'm having to quick and dirty brute force this one. Most people are terrible at security anyway, even those who should know better; we ran an assessment of Vito's activities and passwords at Primavera, so now have a list of potential options to try anywhere else. We'll just keep trying those in until one works or we reach the end of the list."

Whatever had been running on his laptop was now finished and, extracting a tiny memory card, he slotted it into the holder on a small circuit board which appeared from his bag, a USB adaptor hanging off one end.

"Did you make that yourself?"

"Ha, no, these you can buy off the internet, but it types faster than I do." Reaching forward, he plugged the device in. "Give that a moment to work..."

On the monitor, character placeholder dots began appearing, each set that returned incorrect immediately flashing away to be replaced by another.

"...and now, we wait. As I said: quick and dirty."

Still behind Fleccia, Hilshire watched on as combination after combination was tested and discarded. The effect was strangely mesmerising, so much so it wasn't until the peal of his phone erupted from one pocket that he snapped away, jumping slightly in surprise.

Stepping back, he dug quickly for the mobile, checking its screen: Fausto. Mesmerising or no, Raffele's toy had better hurry up. If they needed to grab Vito early…

When he answered, the news was not what he had been expecting, and even less welcome.

"_Hilshire, Fausto. Our friend has just dumped his bike in the airport car park and is heading for the terminal."_

It took a moment to digest that.

"He is leaving?"

"_Looks like."_

"He did not have enough luggage for an extended trip."

"_Maybe not, but I doubt he's collecting someone from departures."_

At that, the detective suppressed the urge to curse. Picking up Vito now would ruin Raffele's plan, but if they _lost_ Vito the plan did them no good anyway, and who knew when he would be back... if at all. "Can you grab him?"

"_Not in the airport, not without causing a scene."_

It was tempting, but...

"Where is he going?"

"_How the fuck should I know?"_

"Well follow him and find out!"

There was another pause from the line's far end, and in it, Hilshire took a breath, steadying after the uncharacteristic outburst. Finally, the reply came.

"_Will do. I'm still in the car, but Carlos is pursuing on foot, I'll let him know."_

Ringing off, the detective stared at his phone. If Vito was leaving, his destination was going to be a vital piece in the puzzle, not to mention discovering his intentions once there.

"And we're in."

His head swung back. "What was the password?"

"No idea. Quick and dirty, remember? Give me a couple of minutes and I'll see if there's anything interesting looking."

Glancing around, he took in the rest of the apartment. Raffele still needed watching, but the last thing he wanted was to distract him, and since Fleccia had seemingly taken to hovering around he could probably afford to step back a little and question the cyborg later. Nearer front windows, Genco was still crouched on the floor, moving onto the last folder, and he was about to go inspect the analyst's progress when Triela walked through the door. Stepping quickly over she held out her hand.

"Mr. Hilshire? I found these in the rubbish bin."

In her palm lay thin slithers of coloured plastic, some bearing raised letters and numbers, edges white where they had been sheared through. Picking up one he inspected its side, messy cuts giving way briefly to crushed silicone and circuitry.

"Bring them over here."

Spreading shattered pieces of credit card across the kitchen bench, Hilshire began sorting. By the looks of things the remains of at least two cards had been mixed together and, dividing their number, he pushed half toward Triela. If they could reassemble them, it might give some inkling as to what alias Vito had been using for his work with Anagnos and, more importantly, a traceable history of purchases.

_In which case though, why destroy them now? Did he consider these compromised?_

It was painstaking work but, slowly, two small rectangles began to form. They were just about complete when Genco's voice wafted over, and the tone was dry.

"I'll bet you anything those belong to these."

The analyst was standing behind, rucksack back on one shoulder, stack of folders still cradled in his arms, the topmost of which he patted awkwardly. Realising the lead handler's attention was now his, he stepped forward, leaning down to inspect the cards.

"Yeah, see?" Glancing around again, the SWA staffer quickly dumped part of his burden on the floor, before spreading his last folio across the free-standing stove's hotplates.

"See?" he repeated, and Hilshire leaned closer to peer at the bill on which his finger rested. "The names match. If I were to take a guess, I would say those cards were used for running this safe house."

"And if he's cut them up..." A sinking feeling had entered the detective's stomach. Not now, not after getting so close. Surely there was some other reason, a security measure for going away perhaps...

_But then why not take them with him?_

It was a treacherous thought, but who knew, maybe Vito just did not want to risk being caught with that alias in his pocket? Surely they could not have been found out already. The surveillance setup he had never expected to last forever, it was far too slipshod, too hastily assembled, but it should have remained innocuous for at least a few more weeks. Maybe...

"_Shit."_

Despite sharing its sentiment, the word had not been his, and Hilshire's head snapped around again as Raffele's hands slapped down onto the desk before him. Hurrying over, he peered once more over the hacker's shoulder.

"What is it?"

"It's wiped, the whole fucking computer's been wiped."

"Wiped?"

"No data. Zip, zero, zilch... nought... and just to rub salt in the wound that Vito clown didn't simply nuke the drive, _oh no_, he left just enough OS there to so we could waste time getting in... for fucking _nothing_."

The sinking feeling that had come with Genco's theory now became fully fledged freefall: safe house cleared out, computer cleaned...

"He's gone."

It was a statement, words coming out hard and, not waiting for those present to reply, the detective grabbed his phone again. If Vito were not too far advanced through the airport, following him remained an option, hopefully the SRT would have better news.

It barely got to the second ring before being answered.

"_Martinello."_

"Where's Vito?"

There was the briefest pause as the other man caught up.

"_He's past emigration and they're just boarding."_

"Can you pursue?"

Only after the words left his mouth did what had been said register. If their target was going through emigration...

Fausto finished the thought for him. _"Maybe, we might get there in time but he's headed international and neither of us have a passport. Getting off at the other end could be a bit of a fucking problem."_

"But you at least know his destination?"

"_Yeah, that I found out, it's fucking _Hong Kong_."_

Hong Kong. That was it, they'd lost him, tripped up at the last hurdle, by the time the SRT could contact anyone the plane would be long departed.

_Well, there was nothing else for it._

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Hilshire sighed. Suddenly, he was extraordinarily tired. "Alright, see he gets away safely, note the plane registration and flight number, then come back in."

"_Will do."_

Dropping the phone from his ear, the detective looked around. "He has escaped, headed for Hong Kong."

"_Hong Kong?"_ Raffele's words were incredulous.

"Yes, Raffele, _Hong Kong_." He sighed again. "Give this place another look through and see if there is anything else of use, then pack up, I want us headed back to Trieste by the end of the day. Tomorrow, we begin again, from square one."

"Did you want to take his computer?"

"If you think it will help, do what you like. Take everything if you want." Looking around, the Section Two man's eyes fell on another of their number. "Genco, a moment."

Beckoning the analyst away from their tame hacker, he lowered his voice. "Once we are back, bundle up everything found to date and send it on to Monty."

"She's still in France, I don't know if what we have will be of that much help."

Hilshire shrugged. Right now, he was past the point of quibbling, of trying to interpret instructions, of trying to _help_ generally.

"I do not care. She said she wanted to be sent everything, so let's do as she asks."


	12. CH11 Swallows & Amazon

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

**Chapter 11|Swallows &amp; Amazon**

Hong Kong was getting ready for rain, again, heavy clouds hanging low in saturated air, their grey bases obscuring skyscraper tops and sucking colour from forests of overhanging signs, lending the city a closed in, claustrophobic atmosphere. Beneath those threatening skies a small figure slipped quietly through rush hour crowds, borne along in their current, never hurrying, never pushing against the flow as it drifted across the tightly packed street, a white cap pulled down to meet dark sunglasses: just another commuter headed home after a long day.

_Claustrophobic indeed._

Reaching grimy shop fronts Monty paused and, taking a surreptitious look to ensure she remained unobserved, pushed aside thick plastic ribbons which blocked her path though a darkened doorway. Letting them clap shut, she removed her glasses, peering around the shop as pungent scents of ginseng, asafoetida, and something strangely reminiscent of burning hair, bit into her nostrils. Along one side a timber topped counter ran toward its rear, ending at another curtained portal, thin space behind backstopped by an array of lacquered draws, diminutive enough to have not looked out of place in a library index. The remaining walls were home to deep shelves, most supporting collections of thick necked jars, and she leaned closer to one, examining what floated inside.

From the store's rear came the clack of another curtain and, straightening from her investigation, Monty glanced sideways to find a small man standing before the second entry. Dressed in the apparently local uniform short-sleeved button up shirt, its collar left open beneath a face just showing its first liver spots, he was looking at her quizzically.

"_Néih hóu_. _Y__ŏ__uh__é__gu__ì__g__à__n?_"

Turning to fully face the herbalist, she used the spare moment to reach into her small, but rapidly growing, supply of Cantonese. "_Néih hóu... neih sīkm̀hsīk... gong... yìngmán a?"_

Another pause, then.

"Yes, I do. Did you want help?" He gestured to the jar she had been inspecting. "Or perhaps _xi gui tou_?"

"No, actually I have a prescription to be filled."

Digging in a pocket she produced a thin slip of paper, which was proffered across the counter and, stepping forward, the little man took it from her. Placing spectacles on a pointed nose, his gaze ran quickly down the list of characters and, internally, the watching girl scowled: she had memorised what formulas were supposedly written but, frankly, he could tell her anything right now and all she could really do was agree.

Jethro's intermediary contact had better be reliable.

Reaching the list's end, her opposite's eyes narrowed. "Powdered _lù biān_is difficult to come by, easier than the full organ mind, but I am surprised to see it prescribed. That will take me a few days to get in, perhaps something in the meantime, _rénshēn_ for vitality perhaps?" he glanced her up and down. "I cannot see what any man would possibly need _lù biān_for."

"It's _not_ for any man, and ginseng is just... _plain_."

"Ah well, there is very little in Hong Kong you realise, and the powder must be kept dry to be effective."

"Which is why I am here, and I know how to keep powder dry."

There was another pause, and Monty waited, powdered deer's penis had _not, _supposedly, been on her written list.

Finally, the herbalist spoke again. "Very good."

Putting her prescription down, he reached under the counter, withdrawing another one of the large jars and, as he undid its wide lid, a strong, acrid, aroma wafted out, momentarily blotting away the shop's background smell. Reaching into the jar, he extracted a flat, faux-traditional looking box, old and beaten, decorated around the lid and sides in fine patterning. Dusting off plastic wrap protecting it, he placed it on the counter.

"For you, you may inspect while I fill the rest of your prescription."

As the herbalist turned to slide open one of his small drawers, letting yet another scent waft into already crowded airspace, Monty pulled the box toward herself. The fabric-covered edges were heavily frayed, obviously well used, the sort of thing one might expect a cheap calligraphy set to arrive in. Folding back the lid, she lifted out what lay inside, one of two.

_Type 54 pistol_, the knowledge arrived unbidden in her mind, _Tokarev clone, former standard issue sidearm of the Peoples' Liberation Army. Eight round magazine, 7.62mm necked…_

With a conscious effort she shut the data stream off, instead weighing her purchase in one hand. Like the box in which it had come the weapon was well worn, very definitely second hand, and chunky, certainly not ideal for concealed work, especially for herself, but beggars could not be choosers. Checking it was empty she racked the slide before pulling the trigger once. As far as she could tell it appeared to work just fine, and so long as that were the case she could live with any amount of… _patina_.

Between her and the shop's front window, the herbalist had begun grinding something unidentifiable into powder with mortar and pestle, casting a pale shadow across where she stood. She still had plenty of time before he finished and, allowing encyclopaedic weapons knowledge bestowed upon her by the SWA's doctors to flow once more, she began breaking down the gun.

Again, insofar as she could tell, its insides appeared worn but serviceable and, as her prescription was finalised, the second pistol had also been cleared under a similar inspection. Closing the box, she watched the herbalist move back toward her.

"That, give here."

Taking the box, he placed a plastic bag of loose ammunition with it, before surrounding both with a raft of herbal formulae, the combination giving off a strong, faintly gunpowdery, scent.

"These will…" he made a circling motion with his hand, as if feeding the fragrance up toward his nostrils, "…mask smell. Help hide."

Wrapping the collected items in paper, he placed one palm on top of the finished article and, on cue, Monty withdrew her wallet, counting off notes from a wad of cash Katherine had provided, feeling scrutinising eyes follow each movement. Peeling away one final slip, she neatened the sheaf up, before handing it over, whence it was counted again. Completing his own check, the shop's owner tapped the prescription also folded atop her parcel.

"And for medicine, some of these not cheap."

"Not included then I presume."

"No."

Stifling a sigh, the girl inspected what the final total had been, and peeled away another two notes. When she got back, there were going to be _words_ regards quantifying what was and was not part of a negotiated price.

Smiling as additional payment was handed over, the herbalist pushed her purchase forward, before rummaging in a drawer to secure a few coins, which were also slid across the counter top.

"This is now yours. Remember, if you are caught, it not my problem, you were never here."

Pocketing her change and picking up the sizable burden, Monty turned toward the door, before pausing, using the beat to scan streets beyond through grubby, distorted, plastic. _"Joigin."_

"_Jūk néih hóuwahn_."

Stepping from the cool, dark interior, the young agent paused again as thick ribbons clacked shut behind her, replacing sunglasses to look around.

_Good luck._

Unfortunately her grasp on the language was not nearly good enough to decipher intricacies of tone, but whether meant genuinely or otherwise, she could certainly do with a little good luck right now. Rush hour was beginning to ebb and, scanning the area once more from behind smoked lenses, she spotted a familiar face in the throng.

_One of Zhang's._

She had no idea if she herself had been noticed or not, but the clouds were starting to make good on their threat, sheets of rain advancing across the city, sending those still outside ducking for cover and thinning the crowd further still. Better safe than sorry and, catching onto the tide's tail, she melted into its remaining flow.

* * *

Perched in shadow, back from the window, Jethro watched bustling streets below, a laptop resting forgotten on his knees: the inevitable detritus of taking over information collating duties. As it was want to in monsoon season the rain had come through thick and fast, disappearing quickly as it arrived, leaving slick pavements in its wake, those traipsing across glistening thoroughfares antlike from this height. At least he enjoyed a semi-decent vantage point now, Katherine having finally been convinced to allow his keeping watch from her front-facing bedroom. Whether that had been the result of smooth talking, or exasperation at his constant fidgeting during Monty's absences, he was unsure… probably a combination of both. It had been an intentional two-pronged attack, of course, but, if he were honest, it had not required a great deal of acting.

Whatever reason though, it beat trying to maintain a lookout through the kitchen's narrow glass and, his eyes fell to the currently blank computer screen, it gave him some privacy digesting those documents not fit for viewing by their SIS counterpart.

Turning back to the street, he scanned the crowd again, searching for a familiar white cap, attention snapping instead to a flash of auburn hair, quickly dismissed in disappointment as its owner continued on, giggling with a girlfriend bearing similarly dyed locks. It wasn't that he did not trust Monty, far from it, there was no-one he would rather have, but that didn't stop him from worrying, and a vivid imagination could be a terrible burden to carry.

Beginning his sweep again, Jethro's attention focused in once more to a hopeful clothing item and, this time lifting a small set of field glasses to peer through, he cracked a small smile as his partner ambled toward the apartment building. Upon reaching its entrance however she did not stop, continuing past at the same measured pace, a large parcel tucked under one arm.

Fingers drummed on his leg, eyes automatically moving to cover crowds left in his girl's wake. Not coming straight home was smart, but the longer route would also mean greater exposure. That sort of precautionary measure meant she had probably encountered one of Zhang or Charlie's people, and he turned to scan bobbing heads again as a fresh wave of worry rolled in. If she were caught now, armed with stolen government property, they wouldn't even need to make up a story to indict her. Could it have been the broker sold them out? He did not like going through new people at the best of times, not like this at least, but the landscape had changed since he was last in the East, a truth becoming more readily apparent with each source he contacted, their own conduits and suppliers having either dried up, or changed...

...or his calls simply going unanswered.

_Need to spend more time in this part of the world Jethro my lad, find an excuse, or you'll wind up even worse out of touch._

He glanced at his watch, second hand moving interminably slowly against textured, dark brown, backing, passing double 12 o'clock markers and back down the far side. As it swept by the crawling GMT arm, he tore his eyes away and returned to looking down on the street, fingers still drumming.

Another five minutes passed, another ten until, after what seemed like an age, a sharp 'all clear' rapped against the apartment door.

Closing the already hibernating computer, he stood from his temporarily relocated kitchen chair, tucking the machine under one arm to move quickly back into the main living area. Katherine, however, had already risen from the table, upon which a small array of firearms were spread in varying states of disassembly. Snapping shut a snub-nosed revolver as she did, the woman moved quickly to the door, peering through its peep hole, gun by her side. Placing his laptop down on the still unfolded sofa bed, fingers shuffling toward where his own pistol lay concealed, the handler watched as she unlocked the entry, pulling it back just enough to let Monty's slender form slide through.

"Welcome back," she jerked her head toward Jethro, a wearily annoyed expression twitching Eurasian features as eyes flicked to the computer, "he hasn't left that bloody window since you left."

Giving a curt nod by way of reply, the younger woman surveyed weaponry currently strewn across the table, before placing her parcel on the nearest chair instead. As she stepped over to her partner he leaned down, peeling off her hat and planting a perfunctory kiss upon pursed lips.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Miss me?"

"A little." Straightening himself, Jethro threw her discarded garment onto their mattress, continuing in a louder tone. "You run into some of Zhang's did you?"

"Noodle."

Back at the kitchen table, Katherine was sliding pieces of Glock back together, clearing away scattered cleaning kit in the process, and she cut into the conversation. "Even combining resources, Wilkes and Zhang must have left all the stops out to try and find us."

"She was almost directly outside the herbalist's. That's a little more coincidental than I'm entirely comfortable holding to pure good coverage."

At that, the handler stepped up behind her, arms wrapping around skinny shoulders, preparing to play Devil's advocate. "We did suspect Zhang and Charlie could get fairly decent saturation if they threw absolutely everyone on the case, particularly if they do a bit of elimination work regards where we can least likely move."

"If so they've been maintaining that pace for weeks now."

"Don't forget too, your contacts have been around awhile," chimed in Katherine, placing the parcel of medicines upon the table top and beginning to peel back its wrapping. "It's entirely possible Wilkes or Zhang know about them also, whether they realise it or otherwi… ugh, this _cannot_ stay."

Paper now open, the SIS agent recoiled as, free from their bindings, trapped scents inside rolled stronger through the apartment, but Jethro breathed deep.

"Nope, that's the fragrance of Hong Kong that is. _Savour_ it."

"Besides, those did not come cheap, and speaking of which…" the girl lifted his arms away, twisting to face him, "…it may well behove you to double check our cover is being included in the purchase price next time."

"That price was supposed to include the lot."

"Well, if it was, the message did not reach the herbalist. We're on a limited budget, so if we want to recoup the money we're going to have to sell that on."

Jethro let a puzzled look cross his face. "That should have gone on down the chain…"

"Did you _confirm_? Or did you just assume everyone here would be good at Chinese whispers?"

From the table came an exasperated sigh. "Well, you two can sort it out amongst yourselves, _I'm _going for a shower." Gathering up her two Glocks, along with the revolver, Katherine gestured toward the open parcel. "And if you don't intend to dispose of that, at least wrap it in a plastic bag or something."

"Leave the cleaning kit."

Not acknowledging that last request, she nevertheless left brushes and rags behind, striding toward the bedroom, pointed exit somewhat sullied by needing to squeeze past the standing fratello. In the pause left by her departure, Jethro leaned down to bring himself nose to nose with his partner, brushing a light kiss on the top of her head on the way through as arms wrapped once more around the back of her neck and, taking advantage of the conversational void, he changed the subject.

"Genco sent another packet through."

It had the intended effect, and Monty cocked an eyebrow. "And?"

"And you may be interested to know it sounds rather like Vito is headed our direction. Hilshire lost him boarding a plane bound for Hong Kong."

The eyebrow stayed up. "How old?"

"Maybe a couple of days."

"So he is already here."

"Almost certainly."

Silence fell again at that, continuing as Katherine re-emerged from her bedroom, firearms gone and clothes exchanged for a wrapped towel. "If either of you need the loo then speak now or forever hold your peace."

Jethro shook his head, and his girl followed suit, thoughts obviously elsewhere as she pulled away, extracting her PPK to lay it on the bed. He had a rough idea of what was going through her mind: if Vito where here, then they had already wasted time which could have been better spent pursuing _him_, rather than attempting to re-connect with the Padania's forging operation from scratch. The realisation was vexing him also, but there was another hurdle to cross before they could do anything about it and, by way to kill another minute as the bathroom door closed behind their SIS counterpart, he stepped toward the table, sniffing at air above.

"This is rather pungent isn't it?"

"I have smelled worse."

Rummaging through Monty's parcel he extracted the bag of ammunition, followed by its accompanying worn box. As the sound of running water started from the small bathroom behind, he flipped the lid back, lifting out one of the pistols, quickly examining scuffed metal.

"And these have certainly seen better days."

"Well I only picked them up, but if wishes were horses…"

"…then beggars would ride, I know."

"They seem serviceable enough."

Settling at the table, Jethro pulled the box over. Beginning to slowly disassemble one of the Type 54s, racking his brain for the correct sequence, he spoke quietly as Monty seated herself at his side, laptop under one arm.

"Thing is, the information came through Rome, so what are your thoughts about…" he jerked his head toward the bathroom.

For her part, his partner had prised the computer's plastic shells apart, fingers flying across cheap, flimsy, keys as she logged back in.

"If Vito is already landed, I think we've no time to waste, so we are going to need some tale to spin." Typing stopped as she began to skim the still-open document, continuing to talk. "Question is, how much does she actually need to know? I will give Katherine this: she has so far respected that some of our information comes from sources we may not wish to share."

"That is really only a gentlemen's agreement though."

"Yes, with only one gentleman involved, if that…" the jab was delivered drily, but hearing it was a relief, "…and I would prefer we not give away any more than necessary. So back to the original question: what does she really need to know? I think we could get away with only letting on what is relevant to Vito at this end."

A pause, Jethro tapping the back end of a cleaning brush on the table in thought and, eventually, Monty spoke again.

"She already knew about Anagnos' involvement, and we filled her in on Hermes, insofar as it relates to the forging operation."

"She does that, and if she asks we can certainly associate Vito through that line of investigation easily enough."

"And if she pushes harder?"

The sound of a running shower stopped and, more instinctively than anything, he lowered his voice. "As you said: she has her sources and we have ours, that's been no secret, and wrapping Vito into that existing line will hopefully help. If she does push harder though, we stonewall."

Even as he said it, the concept brought a grimace which he let spread to his face. It certainly was not an ideal solution: blatant, inelegant, and overly trusting of the other party to not ask questions. Better to divert, obscure… remove the need for trust in the first place. Honour among thieves was one thing, but it seemed to be increasingly thin on the ground these days.

Behind him the bathroom door opened again, their host padding damply from it, once more wrapped in her towel.

"Katherine, a moment?"

Pausing as she strode past, the SIS woman turned back. "Can I get dressed first?" Her eyes dropped to the still open parcel. "And I thought I said to put _that_ in a plastic bag."

Not waiting for a response she continued on and, rising from his chair, Jethro dug under the sink for a couple of bags, before re-folding the herbalist's remaining goods back in their paper and double sealing the lot to be airtight as possible. That was placed under the fratello's bed just in time for their opposite number to return, now dressed in t-shirt and shorts, a towel still bundled atop long, black, hair.

"Ok, now I can give you a moment."

Jethro gestured to the spare place. "Take a seat, we may just have been handed a means to get back chasing the Italians."

Katherine's eyebrows rose at that but, doing as invited, she waited expectantly.

In the closer chair, Monty turned her computer around, documentation gone from its monitor, and replaced with a large photograph.

"This man we ran into previously whilst following Anagnos. We know him as Vito, and he is now in Hong Kong."

"And you know this because precisely?"

"Airport contact."

The question had not been unexpected but, true, to form, Katherine did not labour on the minimal answer, instead waiting for the next piece of information to be offered.

"Among other things, Vito serves as an agent for Hermes' affairs, and we have reason to suspect he has been assisting moving the Italians' forging operation around. If we find him, we can probably use him as a conduit back in."

The SIS agent looked around their small apartment, digesting that as she did, then returned to the girl. "We'd need to find somewhere better for working him over, this place is not exactly set up for interrogations."

That drew a dry look. "Contrary to popular belief there _are_ means of extracting information from people that do not involve broken kneecaps. Besides our… _sources_… suggest he comes from an intelligence background, I am sure he will have some misdirect or another pre-prepared to feed any interrogator."

"And so what would you suggest?"

"We track his movements. I think that will give a much more reliable picture of the operation here. Bring him in later by if you must, but it would be worth having something to verify against all the same."

"Follow him… with half the city on the lookout for us?" Katherine's tone was equally dry. "You yourself just now ran into Noodle; random coincidence or otherwise, how long do you think we would remain under the radar traipsing around after this Vito character day in and day out? I would wager not particularly."

"And say we do bring him in for interrogation, what do you propose we do with him afterwards? I'm not having him wander free after enjoying our company and, as you noted, we _are_ still under scrutiny. That will make disposing quietly of a body no less difficult than trying to tail him, and tailing at least doesn't involve dragging a rotting carcass along."

"_I_ can handle the interrogation if you won't. As to disposing of the body, there are plenty of ways to dispose of one here. It's a big city, and a major port, that is a good combination. You visited the farming pontoons, those owners are not wealthy; money in to the right hands will see a needy fish breeder provided with much appreciated feed. That is one contact I _did_ manage to make before Zhang shut me down."

"Of _course_ you did, but I also thought we were running on a budget."

"We _are_ running on a budget, but sometimes the money needs to be spent and, in case you had forgotten, it's also _my_ money we're spending."

"Which somehow makes all your purchases wise and ours not?"

There was a scrape as Jethro pushed back his chair… that was probably just about long enough. Standing, he placed a hand on each of his partner's slender shoulders, giving them a calming squeeze in the process. "Sorry luv, but I think we may need to give this one to Katherine. Much as an interrogation is not my preference, she's right: we can't risk that much time on the street, not anymore… not to mention if we're spotted tailing Vito, Zhang or Charlie may well decide to pick him up themselves."

"_Thank you."_

At the woman's words however, he raised eyebrows at her, thumbs beginning to massage soft flesh. "That still does not answer the question of where you, and it _will_ be your job, Madam Fuji, are going to undertake the questioning. As noted: here is not ideal and, wherever we choose, it will need to be somewhere Monty and I can reliably provide security with limited manpower."

There was a pause as that was considered, but Monty piped up next, a hint of unhappiness still evident in her voice. "It cannot be too far afield either then."

"Will your contact pick up the body? Or do we need to deliver it?"

"He prefers to pick up, but where that is from really hinges _on_ where we interrogate and, travel issues aside for a moment, I'd really prefer that not be too near here or where we actually grab Vito either." Katherine paused. "On that note though, how do you propose to find him? We can't just scour the streets, and frankly this whole discussion is a bit academic without his arse located."

"There we may be able to help as well." Another quizzical look from Katherine, but she again said nothing, and Monty continued. "We said he acted as a representative for Hermes. They have an office in Yau Tong, so it's a reasonable assumption he will turn up eventually, if he has not already."

"It sounds to me though," added Jethro, "that there's a fair wad of organising needs being addressed between now and then."

* * *

Peering down on shimmering tarmac through the tiny open window, Monty undid another button on her oversize shirt, fanning light fabric in an attempt to circulate muggy air around her body. If Katherine's over-crowded apartment had been uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to the accommodation which they now occupied. For all its shortcomings the safe house was, after all, at least air conditioned. Here, in a space left abandoned by squatters, there was not power for even a fan; hot, clammy, atmosphere tolerated only for its view onto Hermes' frontage… despite most of the small, square windows remaining jammed in their frames by decades of accumulated grime. While that did offer one advantage of obscuring whatever lay behind opaque panes, it also left those being hidden somewhat wanting for ventilation.

Gulping water from a bottle by her feet, the cyborg returned to her surveillance as, from deeper in the stifling gloom, came her partner's voice.

"Did you wind up getting squared away with your contact?"

"I did," Katherine this time, "and he also suggested somewhere for us to interrogate Vito. It should be empty, but he can't guarantee it."

"_Fantastic._ Can you give it a once over then?"

"If there's time I would like to. It's still a relief though, I really did not want to use this place. We're too close, and have been shacked up far too long already. Are you sure this is the only chance to intercept him?"

"The only relatively certain one, and you know we've not the time to find someplace else. He was in the city for a day at least before we got the message as is, I just hope it wasn't a flying visit."

"So you can't even be certain he is still in the country."

"No, but do you have a better plan?"

There was no follow on reply, and Monty hid a smile, before turning her attention back to the street. Katherine had a point though: they had been camped out far longer than satisfactory, the area's industrial nature further complicating efforts to obscure movements to and from the neglected shanty. Not to mention paying for the pleasure meant they were burning extra money into the bargain.

From the street wafted sounds of a lorry starting up, echoing between concrete walls on dead air, but that was not what suddenly drew her attention.

"Movement."

From behind came the sounds of people standing, but no further speech, a tense silence instead descending to suck noise from the world. While, as a cyborg, she was perfectly capable of discerning faces on the tarmac below from this distance, she reached down to lift a pair of small field glasses to her eyes.

Waiting seconds to give the impression of having studied closer, she spoke again. "And here is Vito."

Against the building opposite their mark's figure paused, gaze roaming up and down the roadway, and Monty unconsciously pulled farther into the shack's gloom. He made no indication of having spotted her however and, seemingly content, pushed his way into the Hermes office.

"He's gone inside."

"Guess you'll not be getting a chance to check your contact's real estate over after all." That was her partner again, and he continued, "Katherine, head downstairs, I will not be far behind. Monty, keep an eye on things from up here. Once you see her in position, move down as well."

Gaze not leaving the façade opposite, she gave a curt nod.

Hearing the door close at her back, the girl began a slow sweep of the Hermes office. Vito had gone in via its glass personnel entry, whatever errand he was on hopefully lengthy enough they could take positions. Of course, they didn't want him _too_ extensively occupied either. She gave a humourless chuckle at that thought: for someone unaware of being on the clock, he had a very tight schedule to keep. Timing was not the only issue either and, tracking left, she inspected tall loading bay roller shutters, four in a row, leading into the warehouse section. Those were the biggest concern, difficult to cover and easy to see out of. If Vito recognised her through them, any head start he got would leave them in a poor position to intercept.

_Fortunately it would be Katherine on point._

At that moment, the woman in question emerged from the base of their own building, pausing briefly before crossing narrow tarmac, just wide enough for a pair of lorries to pass abreast, and took up station in the next shaded doorway down from Hermes' office entrance.

That was her cue, and pocketing the field glasses Monty stood, turning to the tiny, bare, room. Stepping over a makeshift cot she paused, reaching inside her top's deep opening to extract the big Type 54 pistol now wedged in place at her ten o'clock behind belted linen shorts. Drawing the slide back slightly, she checked it had a round chambered, before replacing it once more out of sight and heading for the door.

The roof access had long ago been forced, those charged with the building's upkeep either too lazy or miserly to bother repairing it. Instead it remained open to those dwelling within hovels dotting the space or, feasibly, they were the same people, having decided, like the denizens of Lei Yue Mun Seafood Market, to move in above their place of employment.

Whatever the original reasoning their efforts were convenient and, pushing through, the young agent descended, down a darkened stairwell and onto rusted steel gantries above loading bays beneath, now converted to a bustling garage workshop. Out of place as she was amongst grubby-handed mechanics, none so much as glanced her direction, enough budget having greased those same palms to buy anonymity, along with mutual understanding to turn a blind eye to each other's operation.

Along the building's facade, tall roller doors were thrown open, letting light and humid air flow in on the workshop's legitimate front and, pausing in shadow, Monty looked through dark sunglasses to the Hermes offices a little distance down on the opposite block. From here she could see Katherine's doorway on their target building's far side, just visible between trucks and taxis lining the gutter, the woman herself however obscured from view.

How long was Vito going to take? That was the question. Now that she was positioned, the answer would hopefully be not too long. In shadow or no, she was not keen on remaining this exposed. Her eyes fell to her watch, briefly tracking its small seconds hand before rising again to Hermes' dock. Some variety of short meeting would be her preferred reason for his visit, something to keep him in one place and at one exit. Were he getting the grand tour however, or to checking on a shipment, then the chances of him exiting in an awkward position were going to be substantially higher.

Checking her watch again, the girl drew eyes from the freight forwarders to glance about her workshop surrounds, noting gazes flick away. Seemingly even the anonymous could draw attention with their backs turned and, continuing to sweep the area, her attention suddenly froze, focusing in on the far wall. One set of eyes had been slower leaving, their owner leaned against a small sink and washing area, grubby wall phone pressed to an ear. Realising he had been spotted, the caller spoke quickly, before replacing his handset and turning away. The face she did not recognise but, taking a heartbeat to consider her options, she shifted backward to get a clearer view, reaching for her mobile as she did.

_Trust your gut, walk away._

She had barely made it a step however when another movement drew her notice and, swinging back to the street outside, she found Vito just exiting the far loading bay.

Too late.

It had only been one step, extracting her from behind the garage frontage but, for a split second, they locked eyes, and in that instant time froze. However, turning, the man began to saunter away down scorching tarmac, headed toward Katherine, seemingly none the wiser as to whom he had encountered.

Letting him move a few paces farther on, enough that she would be well out of his peripheral vision, Monty started across the road, ensuring to keep a vehicle between them. In shadow or otherwise, there was no way he could have not spotted her. Had he not recognised her? Or was he simply acting casually in the hope she had not recognised _him_.

_Two is still a coincidence._

Whatever the Moscow Rules said, being hemmed in from behind was definitely going to count as an enemy action and, on the very off chance she had _not_ in fact been identified, it would be a relatively substantial reminder. Fortunately, if she got that close, any sudden attacks of memory would be too little too late.

_But there was still also that phone call._

One way or the other she would be off the street shortly. Stick to the plan, let Katherine take point, and wrap this up quickly.

Pausing behind a parked lorry at the far kerb she listened hard, before edging around it just enough to peer along the narrow gap between vehicle and building. Their mark was nearly at Katherine's doorway, and no sooner had she taken position than the other woman stepped out to block his path, Glock 23 held low, muzzle pointed at his stomach.

"Vito, I presume."

The response was almost instantaneous, Padania man stepping back, one hand falling to his waist. He was not the only one in motion however and, gun dropping as she moved, Katherine charged forward, strong left hook swinging through to catch him a vicious blow to the cheek. Even above industrial clamour the crack of bone was clearly audible, its recipient spinning the opposite direction, half-drawn weapon clattering to the ground, and metal glinted across the SIS agent's fist as she strode forward again.

Extracting her phone, Monty dialled Jethro's burner, letting it ring twice before disconnecting as, abandoning his firearm, Vito glanced up. Spotting the slight girl behind, he apparently decided she was the lesser threat and rounded instead on his assailant, just in time to block a knee which had been heading for his ribs. It was the wrong move, and this time the bloodied knuckeduster swept in low, driving hard into soft abdomen tissue. Gagging, the man folded up, bringing his head down for Katherine's heavy hiking boot to trace a long arc around, slamming heel first into its side and sending him sprawling into the wall.

From the street came the screech of tyres accompanied by the rev of an engine and, as her opposite stooped to lift their victim again by his neck, left arm winding back to continue the one-way exchange, Monty caught her gaze, cocking an eyebrow in the process.

"If you are _quite_ finished, it is time to leave."

Pausing in mid-violence, Katherine opened her mouth to speak.

Whatever she had meant to say however never made it out. Eyes suddenly snapped behind the cyborg as more tyres screeched to a halt, and the message required no words, both women dropping together as automatic fire scythed across their heads, shattering concrete above.

Drawing her pistol, Monty glanced under parked cars, rewarded with a slender view of feet running their direction.

"Whose!?"

"Not any of H's!"

So Zhang then.

Picking the closest target she unloaded two rounds, bringing him down with a yell of pain, and rolled back toward the lorry as more fire raked her position. Seemingly their comrade's fall had given the attackers momentary pause, and she adjusted her aim, directing the next shots into car tyres behind.

_Three vehicles, that was what she had heard, so probably at least twelve men._

The respite was short lived however, and the Orchid were quickly moving again as she shifted into a crouch, ducking out around the lorry's rear, firing two more shots to keep their heads down. She had a clearer view now, two cars on this end, those hunkered behind covering their compatriots' advance. If they stayed here much longer they were going to be surrounded.

"They're coming this side too!"

Katherine had moved to their protection's far end, words immediately drowned by staccato rifle reports. Head snapping that direction, Monty caught sight of Vito also, now sprawled across hot pavement, her companion having seemingly found time to knock him out cold. She couldn't leave him here though, not if he might remember her. Turning back to the fight, the girl fired twice more into her closest assailant, gun's slide locking rearward and she ducked back behind the lorry's wheel to ram a fresh magazine home. Then, diving forward, she gathered up the man's arm.

"Give me a hand here!"

Turning from her own engagement, Katherine glanced back.

"Forget him!"

There was the barest pause. She could have carried him on her own, but not with this many people watching and, making up her mind, the pistol levelled instead between unconscious eyes.

Suddenly, strong fingers were wrenching her aim away, the SIS agent shouting again. "No! We can retrieve him later! And they already _know_ who you are!"

Another half heartbeat's hesitation, Katherine didn't have the whole story, but...

Dropping her burden once more, Monty reached instead inside his pocket, grabbing the first thing her fingers closed on. No time to look at what she had picked up however and, keeping her gun trained toward the lorry's rear, she backed up to join the British woman by its cab.

"Jethro was coming from your direction, go first, I'll cover you."

This time her companion offered no argument and, as the girl swung around the cab's blunt snout she was up and running, retreating down the line of cars. It didn't take the Orchid long to realise what was happening, and their focus shifted as Katherine dived into cover again. Then Monty was following, taking advantage of their assailants' momentary distraction. More shots, the woman ahead returning fire from behind a car bonnet but, above the noise, she could hear another engine approaching. As she drew level with her compatriot the vehicle it belonged to made its own screeching halt and, not stopping, she changed course, emptying her magazine back toward the fight, sending attackers ducking away. Wrenching open the taxi's door, she tumbled into its back seat, Katherine not far behind.

"No good, go!"

Crouched low behind the dashboard, Jethro wrenched the car into reverse, foot slamming down hard on the accelerator as bullets smacked into its prow, tearing into grille and windscreen, steam billowing inside through shattered glass. Swinging the wheel hard over her handler sent the vehicle pirouetting around its rear axle, passenger door flailing wildly as he hauled it into drive and booted the loud pedal again, screaming away from the fight.

Katherine had managed to catch the loose door now. Slamming it shut as they skidded around a corner, she continued to hold on for dear life as squealing tyres danced between two slow moving cars. Haring around another bend, all four wheels scrabbling for grip, Jethro zigzagged wildly back toward Kowloon proper.

Soon however their taxi's progress slowed to a more sedate pace and, peering over her partner's shoulder, Monty could see its engine temperature gauge pushing well into the red. As she watched, he glanced in the rear view mirror.

"We had better find somewhere to dump this sharp-ish, I doubt it'll be much longer for this world. You two alright?"

By way of reply the girl offered a tight smile and, eyes still not leaving the road, he reached back to give her knee a quick squeeze.

From the seat beside however wafted Katherine's voice, slightly unsteady. "I had heard stories about your driving, wasn't certain I believed them until now, but otherwise in one piece."

The cyborg's attention however now turned to what she had pilfered from Vito's pocket: a thick, men's, wallet and, opening worn leather, she ran a thumb over cards stashed within. Finding her partner's face in the mirror once more her smile returned, wan around the edges and accompanied by heavy sigh.

"Home, James, and don't spare the horses."

* * *

Despite their air conditioner's valiant efforts, Katherine's Sham Sui Po apartment remained steadfastly the warm side of comfortable. Temperature and atmosphere were, however, two very different things and, sitting back against cool concrete on crumpled sheets, Jethro pulled Monty closer, watching the television news across her head. While the reporter's voiceover remained mostly unintelligible, an airborne camera showed ambulances waiting amongst damaged vehicles behind police barricades.

"Well, look on the bright side: there's been no footage of the actual fight surfaced yet and, insofar as I can tell, everyone seems to be remaining tight lipped over who was involved."

Leaning against the doorway of her bedroom, Katherine's reply was dry. "Joys of a state-run media."

Conversation petered out again as all three turned back to the report, its perspective changing from overhead to a street-level journalist, now talking directly from the screen in fast Cantonese. Had this been a domestic operation, the SWA would have quietly silenced the whole affair, he could only hope the 2PLA would do similar.

"See, _this_ is why I wanted something subtler." Monty's words were dry, steel edge lurking just beneath the surface, and he gave her another comforting squeeze, eyes flicking quickly to Katherine again. The woman's retort was fast coming.

"What, and just wander aimlessly around until Wilkes or Zhang finally caught up?"

"Because taking a direct approach obviously worked out so much better for us."

"We may not have caught Vito this time, but we would have got away a lot cleaner too had someone given more warning we were blown."

Now the cyborg cocked an eyebrow. "What would you have preferred me do? Tap you on the shoulder mid drubbing? 'Oh as an aside, Zhang might be popping by'?" She paused. "For that matter I would be asking some serious questions about the reliability of _your _contact who set us up with the garage to begin with. Just where did that one come from? Charlie?"

"_Algy."_

Once more, Jethro tightened his grip on the girl, planting a kiss on the back of her head, forestalling any further retort long enough to interject. "Whatever the outcome, what's done is done. I was the one who decided to go ahead with grabbing Vito and, at the time, it was still the best option. The question is where we go from here. Considering we seem to have rather sharply poked the hornets' nest it would be nice to lay low for a few days but..."

"...but we cannot afford to give the Autumn Orchid too much time with him," finished Monty.

"Which means we need to find him, and get him back."

From the doorway now came Katherine's voice, also returned to near normality. "Well I would say that, after today's escapade, we can expect no help from Wilkes. Most likely my cover there is proper blown. Presuming Zhang says anything about who showed up and in the company of whom, he will be able to put two and two together fairly easily."

"With Charlie in bed with Zhang, I doubt we would have got anything but misdirection anyway," opined Jethro. "However, if Vito's been shipped off to mainland China, or to the army building here, we could be in for an exceptionally tough time retrieving him."

"If that's the case we can write off any sort of daring rescue right now."

Silence fell again as that was considered, thumbs massaging at his girl's shoulders. The SIS agent had a point: maybe not so much for mainland China, but if Vito were taken to the regional People's Army headquarters, then their chances of breaking him out in any reasonable order were virtually nil.

Of course, that assumed Zhang had access to the building to begin with...

It was Monty though who spoke next, apparently thinking down similar lines. "I don't know if Vito would have been taken anywhere official. If we're correct in assuming Zhang is operating without his superiors' knowledge he would not be easily able to use that facility, for this purpose at least..." her attention turned to Katherine, "...unless Station H has something to offer?"

The other woman shook her head. "Unlikely. It was Zhang who would have grabbed him after all. Much as I imagine Wilkes would like direct access, not everyone at Station H is aware of his sideline, and he would want to keep his hands clean as possible. He's made a good habit of that over the years and I doubt he would wish to break the run now."

"Yes..." Jethro piped up again, "...dirt rather does tend to slide quietly off him and onto someone else."

"It does, but unfortunately that also leaves us no closer to locating Vito than before."

Another pause. The TV news had moved off its headline story now, and the SWA handler muted its ensuing coverage, leaving pictures flashing through.

"So, if he has not been taken to an army installation, and not to anywhere owned by Station H, where is he?" He tailed off, voice becoming quieter, more considered. "Where is he? Where do we know Zhang goes?"

It was Monty again who answered. "There's the appliance shop, and presumably he has access to John's apartment. That is about all we are aware of." Her eyes flicked toward Katherine. "Have you encountered others?"

That got a shake of the head in reply, leaving Jethro to pick up the conversation's stream. "Unfortunately I doubt he will use the shop again. That, I suspect, was only a throwaway for until the actual owner returned..."

"...which of course _would_ leave John's apartment in Wan Chai, so scratch the easy choice. Question is: is the difficult option worth the risk, particularly when there is no certainty Vito will be there?"

"At the moment it's looking like the only option we've got: it's also the only place of Zhang's we know which would be viable. If nothing more, we might find something to point us toward other leads, someone else's accommodation perhaps."

"There was nothing operational in the documents we recovered last time."

The handler gave his girl another squeeze. "No, but you were only looking in one place as well."

From the bedroom door however came a cough. "If we wanted to limit our exposure, we could always send someone not us."

While he could not view his partner's face, picturing her expression did not require a great stretch of imagination: flat, with one eyebrow again raised. "And which contact would you intend using this time? Same as the last? Because if it is alright by you, I would prefer whoever visits John's lodgings not immediately go haring off to let the competition know what we're up to."

A sigh.

"No, not the same contact, though I should point out that _was_ one of my more traditionally reliable ones."

"You've barely been here four months."

"And _you_ have been here not half of that. They don't need to go looking for information, just wander past and see if anyone's home. If it turns out Vito is there, we move in and retrieve him, if not..."

"It's still a big risk for a long shot."

Seeing opportunity to mediate again, Jethro inserted himself back into the conversation. "Long shot it may be but, again, we are not precisely spoiled for choice right now."

There was another silence, Monty seemingly contemplating her reply. Finally, she spoke. "It might be the only chance for pursuing _Zhang_ but, if we are stuck crossing the harbour anyway..."

Extracting herself briefly from enveloping arms, she leaned over to retrieve their mark's wallet from the table, holding it up. "Vito's. Among other things, it contains his room card for the Mandarin Oriental. That's on the Hong Kong side, but if we're going over anyway he may have left some means by which to track him. It would be less risky than visiting John's place: the hotel staff don't know he is gone, and if he is even halfway competent it should be at least a day or so before Zhang gets that information."

Looking toward their companion, the handler raised questioning eyebrows and, in her doorway, Katherine appeared to contemplate what had just been said. Then her shoulders drooped, as if admitting defeat.

"It's still a shot in the dark but, yes, probably a less risky one." Now her gaze turned to Monty. "The clock is ticking to find Vito though, and this is an extra step."

"Only if the Orchid _are_ actually using John's apartment, if not then we are a step ahead on what would be the more time-consuming search."

"And you, or course, would prefer the less risky option."

"Seeing as I'm the one most likely being shanghaied into this, _yes_, I would rather."

Jethro's thumbs stopped their kneading, hands instead running down his partner's sides to drum a quick beat on her belly, ignoring the backward glance of annoyance received in reply before folding across its flat curve.

"Alright, Mandarin Oriental first, it gives us better coverage and we would have to spend the time scouting John's apartment anyway." Now he did look down to the girl laid back against his front, tilting her head back with a finger to catch deep brown eyes. "While you are on that side though, see if you can't hire an urchin or two to go check anyone's home."

Pausing, the spy patted her tummy again in thought. "That does still leave us the continuing problem of getting across the harbour quietly. Trains and ferries are is obviously out, anything which requires a terminal, and I think we've nicked quite enough cars of late."

"The bus is a possibility, but I would prefer not, there's few options if something goes wrong in those tunnels, and both they and the taxis have cameras fitted. All things considered you'd be hard pressed to trust the taxi-drivers either."

From the bedroom doorway came a low snort. "Just take a boat, I'm sure there are plenty of fishermen around Lei Yue Mun who would gladly run you across to Central."

"And organise it through whom? One of your 'traditionally reliable' contacts again, just to ensure we get a completely trustworthy skipper? Not to mention Lei Yue Mun is, lest you had forgotten, on the far end of Kowloon from here."

At the words, Jethro gave his girl a warning squeeze, but Katherine was again already responding.

"Then pick somewhere closer. Fuck, there's a typhoon shelter less than half a mile from here, and you can wander down yourself!" She sighed, shoulders sagging again. "You know what? Forget it. I'm going to bed, we can pick this up in the morning."

With that she turned back toward the bedroom, door slamming in her wake.

Feeling his charge tense, the SWA man gave her another quick squeeze, before releasing clasped hands and sliding them around to hoist against her rump.

"Come on luv, probably time we hit the hay as well. I think everyone could use some sleep."

Obeying the cue, Monty stood, digging under her pillow for a set of loose cotton pyjamas. Watching for a moment as she began to strip down, folding clothes neatly upon the kitchen table, his gaze turned back to the television. The news had finished now, replaced by some sort of dating show and, sparing his girl another glance, he dug quickly for the remote to turn it off.

Apartment lights soon followed. However, even with those doused, the space remained hardly dark, signage-hung streets below throwing shifting red and gold patterns across ceiling and walls and, in their artificial twilight, he watched his charge padding back his direction. Shuffling closer to cool concrete, Jethro made space under thin sheets in the small double bed, its mattress sagging as she climbed in, weak springs threatening to roll them together at its centre and squeaking as she shifted to get comfortable. Soon however those too fell silent, leaving the bustle of unsleeping pavements to waft up concrete canyons, echoing in beside the pulsating light show and air conditioner's continued, grating, rattle.

"We really should not be taking this so leisurely."

The words were quiet, smooth tones low beneath the city's lullaby and, pausing in his response, the former SIS man glanced to his partner, laying on her side, back to him. Hesitating only a suddenly faster heartbeat longer, he rolled across, one arm draping itself over her.

As it landed he felt her tense almost imperceptibly again, before immediately relaxing, also adjusting to the still unfamiliar position. Now what was he supposed to do with his other limb again? Maintaining the couple facade, even in bed, was not a situation he had readily needed to deal with in the recent past.

In covering darkness he gave a wry smile: that stood true for the not-so-recent past as well… comfortable cuddling had, generally, been eschewed in favour of priming for the main event.

Settling for shoving his spare arm under her pillow, Jethro pulled Monty closer, positioning his mouth by her ear to continue the conversation in muted tones. "Maybe we shouldn't be, but there's not a whole lot we could do tonight anyway."

"We could at least have some direction ready for tomorrow."

A small chuckle escaped his lips, and he gave her another squeeze. "And also, despite assertions to the contrary, even you can't operate without sleep."

That got a noncommittal sound by way of reply, and he felt her shift, slender fingers snaking around to interweave the hand on his enveloping arm, distant symphony of street life again rushing in to fill the void.

Another heartbeat.

"Maybe I just do not like that Vito can link us to Italy. How much do you think he knows?"

"Probably very little..." The handler paused at that, thinking. "...at least regarding where we fit in."

"And just what makes you so certain?"

He paused again: what _did_ make him so certain?

"I guess... in all reality, Vito's short anything to tie us back with. Until today we have only come face to face with him once, and that was in Cyprus. Presumably he had something to do with the Roman Sniper as well, but we never operated as a pair there. I never left campus and, at least as far as we know, you were not photographed, which means he has nothing from that exercise either."

"Maybe, but the two times we have encountered him he has been on Padania business."

"Yes, but that's what he does. What other business is he going to be on?" Letting silence drag out this time, Jethro slowly withdrew his pillowing arm, sliding it instead under his partner's side to wrap up across her tummy, feeling the support-free mattress give way beneath.

That was better.

"Besides," he continued, "by the sounds of things Vito did not recognise you today."

"At first."

"At first, but all considered it is unlikely he will have put two and two together from that. In fact, with Katherine having done the talking, and so long as Zhang or Charlie don't open their mouths, he'll more probably associate you, both of us should he suffer a sudden attack of memory, to the SIS, which is fine by me."

"And _would_ they let on?"

"I very much doubt it, they've nothing to gain."

"Maybe, but we also don't know what carrot they will try dangling before applying stick either." The girl shifted, taking a moment to rearrange his bottom arm slightly before settling into position once more, rolled back farther against his chest. "For that matter, what about Zhang, and particularly Charlie? Algy and Katherine have both made comment hinting the SIS are aware of the cyborg programme, or at least suspect something is up in Italy. If Vito starts filling them in on what _he_ does, and who for..."

"Then we will have to hope, because it came from Algy and Katherine, the information is being primarily circulated around a different faction. Besides, everyone already_ knows_ what we are here chasing." Even as he said it, the words seemed hollow: Charlie would have pulled everything to do with them the moment he knew the fratello was on its way, and Algy wasn't so petty as to withhold information from Vauxhall. Not draw attention to it maybe but... Jethro heaved a heavy sigh. "To be sure though, we need to collect Vito before that can happen. Now, _go to sleep_."

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done.


	13. CH12 Tilting Windmills

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

**Chapter 12|Tilting Windmills**

Despite being long returned to its Chinese masters, Britain's influence still hung heavy over Hong Kong, no more so than in its grand hotels, still far eastern bastions of high tea and quinine beneath tropical torpor. Where Kowloon's Peninsula looked back to heady days of Empire however, the Mandarin debuted into England's 1960's resurgence, alongside James Bond, the pop invasion and a sense of modernist flourish, eyeing its dowdier competitor across Victoria Harbour's bustling waters. While half a century had rendered its twenty-five storeys less impressive than when they towered above rickshaws and junks, few newer, flashier competitors could match its cachet, woven now into the city's fabric.

This was where the world met Hong Kong.

Sparing a smile for milling business types as she glided under its wide portico, Monty swept past a waiting porter before tripping neatly up marble stairs. Pausing at their crest, conscious of the Type 54's bulk concealed above her white dress's short hem, she waited for the doorman to swing back heavy glass, ushering her into the long lobby, low ceiling endowment of a mid-century past. Ahead, more recently added dark stone and wood stretched away, tall boots clicking across cold flooring as she passed by squat furniture and oriental statuary.

_Gaudy._

Even in the afternoon's empty hours, caught between a late lunch and early cocktails, conversation hummed through rarefied air as Hong Kong society mingled with guests; expat, ethnic Chinese, or otherwise, idling toward beckoning evening. Letting heavy lidded eyes slide languidly across those seated by polished walls, the occasional appreciative return glance was met with twitching lips as the girl sauntered unhurriedly on. Plenty of time to let them see, plenty of time to let them speculate on what she might be doing here…

…plenty of time hunting faces she knew, and committing those she did not to memory.

_So far, so clear._

'Hong Kong Society', she treated another onlooker to that secretive smile, using it to conceal the wry expression which was her first impulse. Pity she was unlikely to mingle with it again in the near future given her current situation but, at the very least, that should simplify picking anyone appearing at some later date.

Turning at the space's end, stairs brought her to a wooded elevator hall and, standing aside to allow another pair of business types past, matching companions on respective arms, she slid into the lift herself, one eye on their retreating backs. Seemingly she need not have worried about arriving too early.

Fortunately the elevators were one thing which had been updated across the hotel's extensive lifetime and, stepping onto upper floors, Monty checked the hall over before continuing her smooth gait along thick carpet, sliding Vito's room key from a small purse. Making a show of checking the number embossed across its plastic face before halting outside the appropriate door, she slipped quietly in, one slender arm snaking back to present the world with a 'do not disturb' sign. A good start, seemingly the hotel were unaware their patron would not be returning.

Straightening as the heavy latch clicked shut, she placed her bag down on an entry table, sensual overtones melting away as her big pistol was withdrawn from its hiding place. Empty living room momentarily discounted, she moved quickly around the suite, through the walk-in-robe and bathroom with its veined marble and white, freestanding, bath. Those opulent surrounds were rather sullied by a small pile of clothes next to one cylindrical sink, albeit now neatly folded by some maid and, moving on, the bedroom showed similar evidence of a mess having been tidied. Seemingly Vito was yet to be housebroken.

_Or she had been beaten here._

Ignoring that last thought the young spy returned whence she had started, gun holstered again to run evaluating eyes around the lounge.

No, she should not have been beaten, at least not by anyone she knew of, not by Zhang, and not by Charlie either. By all accounts Vito was not an idiot and, while admittedly her only information on him originated from the espionage world's pub leagues, an even semi-competent operator should have managed to hold out in interrogation this long. That did of course assume Zhang was still playing close to his chest, and not leveraging what resources Second Department would inevitably have embedded at the Mandarin to identify his captive.

For now, she could only assume being first here, though that assumption would need to be tempered with a second that she did not enjoy unlimited time. One way or the other, the competition would not be far behind.

Well, there was only one place to start.

The suite's safe was located near its bathroom entry, set above floor level with voids overhead and under to store luggage. Leaning in, Monty ran an evaluating eye over it: a tall item, better than the usual hotel fare, though not by much, but probably with a servo instead of solenoid driven lock, thus ruling out simply giving it a good, solid, thump. Reaching forward, she instead typed in a quick string of zeroes to its digital keypad, then hit the hash key, only to be rewarded by an angry beep.

_So, the Mandarin had been conscientious enough to change the default override key._

Her next attempts yielded similar results, a dead end: continuing to try and guess codes was a waste of time, especially when hotel safes were traditionally so poorly secured. Giving up on her first attack, the young agent slid one slender arm down the appliance's side, feeling across its back. Running a hand over textured metal, searching fingers returned empty and, withdrawing once more, she changed tack a second time. Investigating under the shelf revealed nothing, no hold down bolts or signs of screws and, wrapping arms around her current endeavour once more, Monty shuffled it out, weight supported on one palm as thick steel threatened to teeter forward. The other hand began to search across its base and, this time, she found what she was looking for: a small hole, probably intended for a hold down bolt or similar covered, by the feel of things, with an inside carpet. Fair enough too, no need to let guests know the management had put security behind ease of maintenance.

Sliding the safe back just enough that it would not fall, the young agent quickly located a wire coat hanger, throwing another look at her target before untwining it to bend flexible metal into a rough zed pattern. Pulling the safe forward again, her knife made quick work of whittling a hole in the floor lining, creating enough gap to push whatever lay upon it out of the way and insert her makeshift tool, wrestling it up toward the roof. Feeling it bounce off the box's top, a little further teasing had it scraping the door instead and, in the upper hinged corner, the tip encountered a small protuberance.

_Reset button, a fast way to clear the mechanism's memory for the next guest._

Positioning her wire carefully, Monty gave it a firm twitch, the lock's beep of compliance sounding in response. Still supporting heavy steel with one hand, she entered a new code and, hearing bolts retract, hauled the safe open.

Her wire was the first thing to fall out. Extracting that remaining length to be cast aside, she was able to push her burden back into place, attention turning to its contents which, as it eventuated, were sparser than hoped: a few passports, wad of assorted notes, mostly Hong Kong dollars or Euro and… a tablet, with keyboard folded up beside. The notes were tempting but, while the tiny transmitters of Bond fiction still remained, fortunately, fiction, she would not dare spend them. Assuming she remained first on scene was one thing, taking that which may be tampered with or traceable was pushing that assumption somewhat farther than comfortable. Ignoring those she instead gathered up passports and tablet, carrying them back to be spread across the lounge work desk, blinds behind already shut against an otherwise picturesque Victoria Harbour vista.

Laid beside Vito's effects, her purse disgorged a ruggedised handheld computer, one of Katherine's toys. Hacking had not been either of their specialities and, running a cable between it and Vito's device, she scrolled through its menu to configure the appropriate bypass program; uncannily similar to that provided to _her_ by the SWA.

_Seemingly not all the technology department's equipment was quite so bespoke as they liked to make out._

Setting it running she put the device down. Unfortunately, rugged did not equal powerful, and she had been warned any hack would likely require some time: recently updated database or not. Taking the first passport instead, she photographed its cover, carefully working through each page in sequence before moving onto the next. By Hilshire's report, Vito had been on the run when they caught up with him and, if he were bright, these identities would be reserved for just such an occasion. Of course, if they had _not_ been… if they had not been Vito really was only suited to the pub leagues, which made them worth keeping all the same, though Rome was going to need to wait on that information for a bit.

Closing the final booklet, she glanced across at Katherine's handheld: still going. It had better hurry up, she did not want to be here all night.

Making a quick check of desk drawers, empty, Monty returned spent documentation to the safe and, stepping back, surveyed what could be seen of the suite again.

Like the work desk, bedside tables yielded little result, as did the mattress between, and adjoining bathroom, ceiling ventilation grates pushed aside to reveal nothing but dust concealed in cavities behind. Vito must have been travelling light and, at the thought, her eyes fell to his two streamlined hard cases, stashed below the safe's nook. Motorcycle panniers: Hilshire had said he fled on a bike.

Before she could act however, a soft chime from the lounge drew her attention and, hurrying back, she found the tablet displaying its home screen. Not a layout she was entirely familiar with and, glancing at her watch, the girl grimaced: if hauling data out took as long as breaking in had then time was going to be at a premium, and she had other appointments to keep. No chance to pick and choose then and, scrolling through Katherine's menus again, she instructed the handheld to simply image whatever it was attached to. That would take time as well, but right now she needed to be out, and this way she at least had a chance of interrogating the stored data later. Much longer here and her cover was going to require staying the night, a less than enticing prospect for multitudinous reasons.

Returning to Vito's minimal luggage she lifted both panniers, before selecting the heaviest, popping the top of which released a musky scent of unaired laundry and old cologne from clothes piled to its brim. Apparently it had been serving duty as a dirty clothes basket though, going by the quantity of garments also scattered around the suite, her mark had been shopping rather than washing.

Nose wrinkling, Monty dug soiled fabric from the case, hauled out in small lots lest anything of importance be concealed amongst crumpled folds. Finding nothing, her attention instead turned to the pannier itself, supported at arm's length for inspection. Flipping it around, she checked the interior, before holding it away again, one eyebrow raised: unless she were very much mistaken, the piece was distinctly shallower inside than out. Placing it on the floor, questing fingers began running over neatly lined sides inch by inch and, reaching the base, fabric shifted slightly under her touch. Pressing harder, she was rewarded with a click, the bottom plate jumping slightly as its latch released, and a thin smile cracked pink lips: her own suitcase contained a similar compartment, albeit smaller. That was probably now in the Autumn Orchid's possession, along with her suppressor, and the fratello's spare magazines and ammunition, which was vexing.

A hand swung back to brush again across the holstered Type 54… another good reason to carry that instead.

Lifting the floor panel away however found the compartment bare, cut outs in dense foam suggesting space for triple magazines and a compact handgun of some description, presumably that Vito had dropped during his scuffle with Katherine. Finding nothing did her little good though and, shoving dirty clothes back in place, her attention turned instead to its twin. That proved emptier than the first, giving up a few toiletries, a pack of condoms… probably more equipment case than clothing and, prying away its respective false floor, she hid another smile: now she had some idea where his priorities lay.

Perhaps more interestingly, his luggage was patently meant to go only as a set and, lifting out a box of .45 ammunition, she prized it open: still full. Seemingly he had not found cause to use that between Italy and Hong Kong, and it was certainly not for the second firearm concealed alongside. Extricating the small weapon, she turned it over in slender fingers, SWA's imbued knowledge offering a running commentary: Ruger LCP, .380 pocket gun. She dropped its magazine free; loaded, along with the two spares still in their foam nests. If nothing else, it loaned credence to the theory Vito originated from across the pond.

Pausing for a second she turned the gun over again, it would certainly suit her stature better than the bulky Type 54. Quashing that thought however she replaced the weapon, dumping those few items which had been in this case back atop its hidey-hole. No, nothing which may have been tampered with, and no - she suppressed a dry chuckle - smoking guns. Besides, leaving it behind would keep anyone following in her tracks guessing.

_And speaking of those following in her tracks._

Moving to the bed she hauled neatly arranged linen back, crumpling until it resembled a fair approximation of somewhere two people had spent a restless night, one of the condom packets torn open and its contents disposed of for added effect. Vito did not seem the tidy sort either, and the first case supplied a set of clothes to be dropped in a corner, minibar raided for additional authenticity.

Continuing on, she gave the bathroom a similar once over, no need to go too far, the Oriental Suites were cleaned twice daily, so she would be keeping only the maid occupied prior to Zhang's inevitable arrival. On that thought though, she now had excuse to be a little rougher investigating the rest of the suite, as it transpired a perhaps unsurprisingly fruitless exercise, given minimal luggage and the apparent haste with which he had exited Italy.

Straightening a last painting, the girl stood back, contemplating her handiwork for a moment before moving back to the desk. Katherine's handheld had finally finished its transfer and, packing that away, she returned Vito's tablet to his safe, eyeing the wad of notes once more. Leaving them be a second time she secured its contents, before carefully re-positioning the heavy box, brushing dust lines from the shelf to erase any trace of movement.

Making one more pass through the suite she stifled a sigh: best intentions aside, her efforts were unlikely to fool either the SIS or Autumn Orchid. Still, it might keep the hotel staff, and thus anyone embedded therein, off her back a little longer, perhaps prevent the maid from gossiping to those who actually knew where their guests were… this not having time to do things properly was becoming irksome.

Retrieving her purse, she slipped out the door, dropping the 'do not disturb' sign back inside as its heavy latch clunked shut once more.

* * *

While Hong Kong's compressed streets remained a claustrophobic experience for the hunted, they also presented advantages for those wanting remain out of the spotlight, not least bringing most destinations within easy walking distance. Idling through milling Causeway Bay shoppers, Monty spared a moment from her scan of those around to glance up at shining glass façades, photogenic models smiling down from multi-storey adverts touting the sprawling, luxury goods spaces behind. It was stark contrast to her path east through Wan Chai to get here, that latter still wrapped in seedy daytime dilapidation shared by out of hours entertainment districts the world over, a facet laid bare despite dark clouds beginning to build for the inevitable evening downpour.

Shopping however was not her purpose and, even in the shiniest, most modern, districts, Hong Kong still possessed its secret spaces. Drifting closer the footpath edge through well-dressed throngs, Monty suddenly disappeared down a narrow alley, ignored by those outside, blinkered to that not befitting the fantasy built around.

Despite being bare metres removed it was a stark contrast to the area's clean public face, or even to the buzz of Mong Kok and Lei Yue Mun. Spaces like this in older districts flowed with the city's pulse, filling them with life and frenetic activity but here, among sterile glass sky scrapers, the stretch of concrete lay forgotten, dead and drained of vigour by the artificial world beyond.

Bereft stalls and flashing neon, garish wall signage was replaced by only the occasional slash of artless graffiti, skip bins below wading in stagnant water. Behind one of those hid the reason for her visit: a girl, probably a year or two younger than herself, oversize and obviously handed down shirt and shorts neat but threadbare. An even younger, similarly garbed, boy stood beside her, grubby hand clasped tightly and, as the spy approached, he quickly scooted behind his sister, peeping around her flank.

Halting before them, Monty surveyed the pair, managing to conceal any flicker of amusement. 'Find some urchins', Jethro had said. Well, she had done as instructed and found some urchins, now it was time to see if paying them to be useful would work here as in Dickensian London.

Cocking an eyebrow, she addressed the girl. "Well? Did you see?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"And?" Monty prompted.

For a moment eyes flickered away, her brother's fingers tightening, but then the pre-teen seemed to steel herself, responding in soprano Pidgin English. "First money."

"First proof."

Extracting a cheap, pink, mobile phone from one pocket, she clicked at its keypad, before holding it out. On the tiny display showed a grainy, washed out picture of John's apartment building, the Orchid agent's window dark bar where ill-fitting curtains created a slit of light, leaving maybe an inch or two clear. If the angle was any measure, it had been taken near where she herself had watched on her own visit.

_And didn't that seem like a long time ago._

Passing the handset back, the cyborg extracted a sliver of Hong Kong dollars, fanning pre-counted low denomination notes out like a deck of cards so her opposite could read the markings. "Now, tell me what you saw."

Hesitating another moment, eyes glued to proffered money, the girl spoke quickly. "I go to place you say, men in apartment."

"How many men?"

"Not know, see two, they move around, talk to other. No see."

"Hiding man loud!"

Seemingly the younger child had gained courage enough to speak, slowly edging out from behind his sibling once the conversation started, hand albeit still gripping hers with white knuckles. At those words however, Monty's eyes narrowed, causing him to scoot back into hiding: one out of sight, consistently out of sight, that could be Vito. Of course, given how little she knew, it _could_ be just about anyone.

Forcing a smile, the agent moved her attention to the boy, now peaking again from behind his sister. "What did the… _hiding man_… say?"

No response.

Stifling a sigh, she turned back to the original urchin. "What did he say?"

"Not much, only hear once. Not understand."

_Probably gagged._

"And you stayed how long?"

"Long, you say stay long, so I stay. At least hour."

"And you never saw this other person?"

"No."

"Describe the two you could see."

The girl seemed to think for a moment, before waving one hand vaguely above her head, as if indicating height. "They… one small, one… pretty, like… I take photo."

Digging in a pocket she clicked through the battered mobile once more to proffer it again.

"See? That him."

Peering closely at the grainy picture, Monty grimaced: a dark patch was standing before pulled back curtains, backlit by the room, the camera's cheap sensor obscuring any further details. This girl might have kept it as a reminder, but she had seen that shadowy figure firsthand with memories to match, for purposes of later identification it was useless.

Well, if you paid peanuts you got monkeys, and she had not exactly been expecting staunch professionalism.

The question was what to do now?

_Firstly, get rid of these two._

Passing her opposite's device back, the SWA agent gathered up her small wad of notes, handing them also over. Before letting go however, the eyebrow resumed its raised position. "Now you do remember our deal?"

"Yes, we no see or talk you."

"I see! Pretty!" The boy had emerged again, and was now pointing up at her.

This time he received a glare rather than smile and quickly disappeared back into cover. "Yes, and 'pretty' will also be 'angry' if you do not keep her a secret."

Again, no response, and her attention returned once more to his sibling.

"You will make sure he stays quiet?"

"Yes, I make sure."

"Good." She let go. "Now, get moving."

Quickly counting her spoils, the local child turned away, brother dragged along behind, and Monty scowled: that latter she was not happy about at all. She had probably a fifty-fifty chance the girl would keep her mouth shut, but the boy was harder to predict, young enough to neither understand fully what was going on, nor to have acquired any form of brain-to-mouth filtering.

_And the affliction was not limited to children for that matter, some cyborgs could stand to employ a little additional filtering as well._

What was done was done though and, while small children tended to lack any sense of propriety, adult minds had a fortunate habit of disregarding obscure utterances for them as a result. Hopefully by the time enough people had heard a pre-schooler's blatherings enough times to wonder if there was anything in them, she would be long gone.

Now though, she was faced once again with the previous question: what to do? Knowing John's apartment was inhabited was one thing, but getting from there to placing Vito in it was a distinct leap of reasoning. Another grimace: it would probably be enough for Katherine to decide they should go rushing in though, not something she personally wanted to do without a little more confirmation. Wan Chai was not far away, maybe she could slip back and…

Glancing quickly at her watch, the young agent turned attention to the narrow slit of still darkening clouds above, just visible between towering sky scrapers. No, short distance or otherwise she did not have leeway to slip back, especially as she would require observation time into the bargain for any actual confirmation. Again, she had other appointments to keep, not to mention if she were spotted the game would be up entirely, and any freedom of movement currently enjoyed here on the Hong Kong side rapidly quashed.

The two children had disappeared now and, splashing the opposite direction, Monty was soon returned to the alley entrance, slowing as she drew level to melt into crowds washing across brick pavements beyond. Letting that carry her over a busy crossing, the girl cut through one of the glitzy emporiums, emerging once more onto a patch of footpath, the flow of which directed north, toward the harbour as streetscape features around began to change. Not that those milling shopfront to shopfront would likely notice, or even want to, but now marble and glass façades only went so high, luxury pretensions terminating abruptly at two storeys. Above that, aged concrete and flaking paintwork once more presided, rattling air conditioners dripping condensation on architecturally sculpted stonework as almost purely pedestrian thoroughfares were taken over by vans and red and silver taxis.

Finally even those low-rise boutiques melted away, buildings terminating abruptly in their absence at the wide expanse of Victoria Park Road, turbid harbour visible beyond. Finding a pedestrian gantry Monty started across, glancing west toward the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club, its white buildings squatting low to guard one end of the Causeway Bay Typhoon Shelter. Here protected waters, like the shopping district behind, displayed the gamut of Hong Kong's distributed wealth. Along its length sleek, white, cruisers and sailing yachts slowly gave way to wooden sampans, occasional work barge or decrepit launch towering like manor houses above rag-covered, floating peasantry. Turning from the club's inviting glow, warm against threatening skies, she made instead for the farther end and makeshift floating village coagulated there.

Paralleling moored vessels, the path she trod lost its elegant sashay as it stretched farther from the club house, previously wide, open pavements closing down to narrow, cracked concrete as it pulled in beside the motorway above. Under that latter's sweeping curve, dry ground was littered with bags and old clothes; detritus of the city's homeless, those unable to claim a rooftop or courtyard squat hidden here behind overgrown leaves. To her other side, neatly vertical harbour walls also gave way to sloped rock pitching, slippery steps running down its face and, pushing past another overhanging branch, she stopped at the top of one uneven flight. Descending onto a narrow ledge, just above high water mark, she edged along until foliage blocked any view from behind before extracting her phone from a pocket and using a hand to flash its light over the shelter's expanse. For a moment nothing seemed to happen then, somehow materialising amongst decrepit vessels, a tiny sampan emerged, old tyres around battered flanks skimming scuttling waves. Descending to just above those lapping tops, Monty waited until the blunt prow bumped into weathered concrete by her feet, studying its skipper under the covered stern before stepping aboard.

Vessel settling under her additional weight, the girl found a handhold before addressing him. "Did you get any visitors?"

"No, no visitor. All… quiet on Western Front."

"Indeed."

Dropping onto one of the covered gunwale seats as her transport backed away, the young agent ensured her bag remained firmly grasped as the boat swung around, puttering slowly through the floating maze. Between low riding hulls, planks had been laid to form rough walkways and floating jetties, those traipsing along boards from one deck to another pushing through hanging washing without apparent regard to whom it might belong. Watching as two children landed upon what was presumably their own boat she followed their scampering progress, pulling abreast its tarp and rag canopy to be offered a glimpse inside as they disappeared into the dingy interior. Obviously with time came familiarity, as it was a reasonable bet no map existed of those bobbing paths, or even any certainty they would remain consistent one week to the next.

As the final hull fell astern, her own sampan's thrum became more urgent, engine's vibration rising through timber seating to the accompaniment of waves slapping harder against flat keel boards and, passing the typhoon shelter's outer wall, they were suddenly in Victoria Harbour proper.

While perfectly scaled atop Causeway Bay's protected waters, beyond their tight confines the little boat suddenly felt very exposed, bouncing over larger chop as it edged into busy traffic lanes between Central and Kowloon. Across the expanse rose neat buildings of touristy Tsim Sha Tsui, lively, inviting, mess of Mong Kok hidden behind with its backstopping hills already obscured by sheeting rain.

Motoring along the Hong Kong foreshore, her skipper stuck close under the shadow of towering glass and steel, crossing the Star Ferry route before turning out to the harbour proper. Course settling to parallel the mainland peninsula's western flank, she could see toward Kwai Tsing's container wharfs, intervening bay thick with small, coastal freighters. There, new hulls in corporate colours mingled with rusting tramps riding at anchor, salt-streaked flanks forming a seemingly continuous barrier. Nearer the Lantau Island entrance their larger brethren also rested, shapes fuzzy and indistinct in humidity laden air, awaiting permission to pass under Stonecutters Bridge. At least she had not needed to deal with the shipping lanes proper and, angling in close to land again, they continued up its waterfront.

Heading farther inshore, spindly feeder vessel deck cranes gave way to the solid A-frame derricks of Hong Kong's working lighters, hulls rafted together in a solid mass, clothes and occasional plant once more hanging from high transoms; a modern take on the sampan village so recently departed. Where Causeway Bay remembered both its fishing and colonial past however, the New Yau Ma Tei Typhoon Shelter on Mong Kok's west was purposefully industrial, romantic roots suffering a slow consumption to sustain the bustling port. From water level, identical lifting tackle formed a forest of steel, obscuring container-lined frontages, crowded buildings of Sam Sui Po just visible through heavy latticework.

Some of that history still clung on however and, nosing past the shining southern entrance tug base, waters cleared ahead, steel mountains giving way to familiar wood and rags, though for how much longer who knew. Here, low hulls were not so tightly packed as their island brethren, somehow appearing thinner and weaker, gradually losing their stake on the bay, but her skipper was still forced to slow his vessel to a crawl, edging between as a light drizzle began to fall.

By the time worn tyres bumped against the shelter's public northern edge, warning drizzle had become full-fledged downpour, heavy droplets smashing into the water, kicking up a thick mist across its surface. Paying her dues, the girl scrambled quickly up tall harbour walls, dashing for the rudimentary shelter of shade trees in the small park beyond. Pausing as her boat pulled away once more, Monty looked up at surrounding sky scrapers, tops all but invisible behind sheeting rain. Certainty of getting drenched aside, she had timed that well, monsoonal torrent working both ways to obscure the view of anyone watching from windows above.

_Best get somewhere more populace before it dissipated._

Checking her purse did indeed remain tight shut, she set off into the deluge.

* * *

Computer again forgotten, Jethro stared out the kitchen window, once more reduced to utilising the narrow gap it afforded onto streets below, Katherine, for whatever reason, having chosen this moment to expel him from her bedroom.

Fingers drumming restlessly on table top laminate, the former SIS spy attempted a return to the document currently his ostensible focus of attention. Finding a blank screen, he batted the laptop's mouse impatiently to rouse the slumbering machine, eyes returning to sodden pavements as it did. While their impromptu companion's timing may have left something to be desired, it seemed Monty had picked hers better, population just beginning to reappear in the wake of evening storms, people to lose herself amongst en route from the harbour... presuming she was running on schedule.

Of course, no matter how well a plan went, two sets of eyes would always be better than one, even one cybernetically enhanced, and his fingers returned to their restless drumming. He did not like being cooped up, forced to wait and wonder, a dead mass on the operation, and from here he could not even properly cover his girl's return.

The computer had woken now and, dragging reluctant eyes to it, he began to read.

Two minutes later, its lid was slapped shut again, handler standing from the table. If Monty really was running on time then, successful or no, she would be soaked. Walking quickly to the bathroom he retrieved her towel, soft fabric pressed briefly against one cheek to ensure it remained damp-free… not quite. Maybe he could run it through the dryer before she got back.

No, that would take too long and, returning to the kitchen, he settled for holding it up before the rattling air conditioner. If nothing else its output would have the moisture removed, which might do at least _some_ good.

_Hopefully Katherine wouldn't walk out right now, otherwise he was going to look a right berk._

Towel still held aloft, eyes fell once again on the closed computer: he really should be doing something with that, reading reports probably and, unfortunately, right now that was about all he _could_ do. He couldn't even plan, not properly, not without the information Monty would be bringing back.

A knock interrupted that thought, followed by another, string forming into one of the little group's agreed 'all clear' codes, and with it a weight he had not realised was present lifted from his shoulders. Burden lowering to be neatly folded over one arm, Jethro grabbed his gun from the table, hiding it beneath fluffy layers. Then, taking two steps to the door, he peered through its peep hole as, from behind, came the sound of Katherine's bedroom opening.

_So now she decided to show an interest._

Drawing bolts back, he opened the apartment entry just enough to allow his bedraggled partner inside, kicking it shut in her wake. Foregoing pulling her sodden form close however, he instead checked the door was secure then, hand settling on her waist, bent down to kiss damp hair, proffering the towel without a word.

Swapping that for handgun and purse, Monty began to scrub at soaked locks, normally well-structured A-line dress hanging limply to cling where it touched her body. It was Katherine, however, who spoke first.

"Did you find him?"

Motion pausing, the girl eyed her from beneath white cloth. "Possibly, and it looks like Zhang's presence may be less saturated on that side of the harbour too, which narrows the field somewhat, so…"

"…So what you are going to do now is have a shower and find some dry clothes." Interrupted Jethro. "Walking around under tropical heat whilst soaked is one thing, it's quite another to do so in air-conditioning."

Pausing in retort, the girl seemed to think better of it, instead pointing at her dripping purse. "Fine. I cloned Vito's tablet to the handheld, so get that off and onto an emulator."

"That will be onto my computer then," put in their SIS companion, "and the apartment?"

"Inhabited, but with no certainty regards by whom."

Shifting palms to his partner's shoulders as she said it, Jethro ushered her gently toward the bathroom. "Yes, and now, shower. I don't want to be sharing pillows with a runny nose."

Ensuring the door was closed behind her, the handler returned to their bed, extracting a cardboard box from beneath and rummaging through for a dry outfit as Katherine returned from her room once more, dumping a bulky, hardened laptop onto the table. Folding it open, she looked toward the crouching man.

"I said we should have moved straight on the apartment."

Arranging blouse, shorts and underwear in a neat pile he stood, turning to her, noting as he did that the Toughbook remained booting. Whatever she had been doing in her room, it had probably not been work, which raised the question then of: what?

"The benefit of hindsight perhaps."

"So you _don't_ think we've wasted time?"

"No, I don't." Traipsing past, he knocked on the bathroom, continuing as he waited. "We'll see what Monty brought back, but we would've still needed to scout the place, and at the very least we covered more ground this way."

"Do you _really _believe that? Because I think you're letting affection colour your judgement."

He was saved an immediate reply by the door opening, far enough to let him pass through the wad of fresh clothes. Accepting their sopping predecessors in return he found slender fingers momentarily under his grasp and, giving them a brief, comforting, squeeze, shut the door once more.

_For just whose benefit had that been?_

Turning back to the living space, he eyed Katherine steadily, steeling for the next answer. "You know what? Maybe I am, or _maybe_ whatever file you were given has turned out incomplete compared to its subject. I would be curious to know what you _were_ expecting."

"I was certainly expecting someone who would give more credence to a fellow agent's opinion over whatever piece of tail he had most recently picked up. You may have been good at acquiring them but, if you really want to know what the file and rumour mill had to say, you were not exactly renowned for treating your pets as equals."

Reaching the sink, Jethro placed his girl's boots and underwear into it so they would not drip across the floor, then inspected the dress… looked like she had wrung it out for him already, hopefully it would still be salvageable. Finding a hanger, he began neatening the fabric's fall from its wire hook.

"Then there would be your first wrong assumption."

"That she's a pet, or that she's legal enough to be one?"

"If that's the way you want to put it, yes: that she is good for no-more than throwing a leg over."

"You agreed with _me_ about picking up Vito."

"I did, because at the time it seemed the better option." Hanging his girl's dress from a curtain rail, the handler twitched out its last few stray folds, before leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms. "One of the nice things about not having a pet is she does not require constant control, pandering to, nor pretence she is the centre of the universe, on affection grounds or otherwise."

"What, and just kiss and make up later?"

"Not even that."

"Sounds like crap to me."

Standing fully, Jethro shrugged. This wasn't a conversation he particularly felt like continuing and, retrieving his partner's boots, he pulled one of the chairs out so as to sit facing the SIS woman, pointing to a small stack of newspapers piled on the fridge behind her.

"Pass those over?"

Sighing, she complied. Taking proffered pages he unzipped one tall go-go boot, feeling down inside: soaked as well, and he probably did not have enough paper to do both in their entirety. The lower parts could be addressed, but the rest would need to air dry. Scrunching up a sheet, he began to stuff it into sopping liners and, apparently taking the hint, Katherine turned back to her computer, typing quickly before plugging the handheld into it.

"Did your girlfriend say what sort of tablet Vito was using?"

"Don't think so."

"Damn."

Returning to his task, Jethro extracted another page from the open Hong Kong Standard, shoving it toward the boot's toe. It was a slow process but, by the time Monty emerged from the bathroom, both were placed at the door, paper having stretched just far enough hold them in shape, zippers left open to let air circulate. Cocking an eyebrow, she looked toward him.

"Better?"

"Yes, better."

Peering over Katherine's shoulder, the girl inspected her computer screen. "Did your gadget work?"

"Of course it worked, but I need to know what type of tablet Vito was using."

Moving closer, she pointed to something out of sight. "Scroll down… that one. I will be curious to know what is actually on there."

Twisting in her seat, the older woman eyed her suspiciously. "You didn't check?"

"Unfortunately I was rather pressed for time, and you did note it would be slow, but in the immediate future I'm hoping for some variety of 'find my phone' app."

"You're _hoping_."

The tone was tetchy and, hearing it, Jethro stood, moving around behind his partner to eye data as it began to transfer as well, arms lowering across her. Now dry, he drew her in close, giving a quick squeeze before some retort could form and, when they did come, her words were accordingly diplomatic.

"In the short term I am but, as he did not have a computer at Hermes, I suspect much of his business dealings will be on there also. At present though we could use something to help pinpoint where Zhang has taken him."

"Yes, because obviously Zhang would take his captives to the same place as he stores their effects."

"Considering he is likely short on real estate to choose from it is as good of a lead as any, and leverage is always useful in the interrogation room."

Eyes flicking to the screen momentarily, Katherine spun fully to face the standing fratello. "But we already _know_ where he is, you said yourself that John's apartment was occupied."

"Which means there is a living body present, we have no confirmation of whom and, tricks aside, the only proof is two rubbish photos and the word of a child."

At that last the SIS agent made a sardonic sound, eyebrows rising in accompaniment, but she said nothing and, giving another squeeze, Jethro spoke up. "What did your hired urchin actually find?"

His partner sighed, shoulders relaxing slightly with it and, when she spoke, the words were resigned. "In fairness, it _does_ sound like Zhang is using John's apartment. The kid stayed for about an hour, there were at least two men present, probably three, though the curtains were mostly drawn. If the place's fitout had been better she would have probably seen nothing at all, and part of me cannot help but wonder if leaving a gap was intentional. The third man was out of sight but, from the descriptions I was given, the other two _could_ have been Zhang and Lau Fei-Hung."

"Do you know what they were doing?"

"Nothing for certain, but the one out of sight was apparently not very happy."

Now it was Katherine's turn to sigh, the noise edged in exasperation. "We're wasting bloody time here, that sounds _exactly_ like an interrogation."

"Yes, because what I really feel like doing is charging in guns drawn on someone watching television." The words were scathing.

"_Television_. Television that sounds like someone being tortured_ for an_ _hour_."

"Are you familiar with the concept of a snuff film?"

"Of course I am, in which case going in guns drawn would be doing the world a favour anyway."

Before she could reply, Jethro gave his girl another warning squeeze: healthy scepticism aside, even he had to admit the evidence was pretty compelling, and they were short on time as it was. On the flipside however they were also still very exposed, a very long way from help in any form and, reputation or no, he had not remained alive this long in this business by being stupid.

The laptop binged, screen announcing its data transfer had finished. Seizing the opportunity, he pointed two fingers toward it. "Whichever way we jump, that should be looked at first."

"You're _joking_ right?"

Fixing their opposite with a harder gaze, the ex-SIS man let a hint of steel creep into his voice. "Even if we decide to go, and I consider the evidence Vito is in Wan Chai compelling enough that we should to at least run an eye over there, it will take a couple of hours to get organised. We'll want a vehicle, a plan, and a route in and out, minimum… not to mention you, Katherine, need to get in touch with your contact again to find if we still have somewhere to stay after. That should be plenty of time to decide if Vito's tablet will be useful in the immediate future or not." He glanced downward at his partner, receiving a nod in reply. "So, you and I will start setting that in motion. Monty, go through Vito's data lest there's anything which can corroborate his location, or dispute it. If there is, so much the better, if not, we're just going to have to act on what we can."

There was a pause while that was digested. Finally though, Katherine spoke up.

"Fine, that I can live with, but when we get there we do this _my_ way."

"No." The word was hard, finality dripping off every note. "We are going to do this carefully, and with caution enough to make a dormouse look like _Don Quixote_."


	14. CH13 Stepping Stones

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

**Chapter 13|Stepping Stones**

With the fall of night, Hong Kong's rain had returned with a vengeance, lights softening under low cloud, reflected in the mirror of slick, shimmering, pavements. Not that it did much toward deterring Wan Chai's nightlife, which continued about its business beneath a crowded sea of umbrellas. That turn of fortune Jethro was very glad of, combination of poor weather and seething masses conspiring to obstruct those whom may wish to root him out.

Which was all well and good, but it still did nothing toward reinstating his ability to hide in plain sight, and he slunk farther under the food market stall eave, rivulets sluicing past his nose off tin roofing.

_At least in the summer heat, one dried out quickly._

Attention turning from bustling shared tables, the former SIS spy let eyes drift across glowing alley depths to John's apartment building beyond. Scoff though he might at the poor quality of information gathered by Monty's urchin, tonight it was looking rather worryingly like he would have even less luck getting eyes on their target.

Sticking out a hand brought rain splashing against his palm. If it were getting lighter he frankly could not tell, and it would be worse at street level, forest of overhanging signs seeming only to concentrate the deluge rather than protect from it. Counting through that flickering canopy from slick tarmac a second time to ensure he had the correct window, the handler grimaced. Seemingly he was indeed out of luck, someone having sealed the curtain slit, eliminating even that tiny peephole. That he did not like at all, and Monty never _had_ managed to locate Vito's phone.

Another thought caused his expression to sour further: and who said the original view in had even been accidental? If their opposites were tiring of the hunt, leaving that chink would be a simple enough ruse by which to draw them into position and, danger aside, unwittingly taking bait would be an affront to professional pride.

_Pick the time and place for action._

That was the official line at least, the Moscow Rules' anonymous author leaving absent the unspoken second part: unless you don'thave a choice… which was why Katherine was currently hidden somewhere in apartments opposite, rather than here where he could keep an eye on her. At the end of the day, it had been quicker to let her take point rather than argue, a decision he was now beginning to rue.

Monty would have to make the call whether to go or not, and he could only hope their co-conspirator would listen.

Mobile appearing in one hand, Jethro stepped away from the stall, melting into the crowd.

* * *

Face illuminated by her phone's screen, Monty's eyes flicked across her partner's message, lips drawing thin as she read its single line of text. They had been here too long already, current hiding place's stench of bleach and ammonia biting into her nostrils, and a tetchy Katherine was going to be even less co-operative than normal. Pocketing the device again, her gaze flicked toward where her companion was sitting atop an upturned bucket, surly expression hinting displeasure at not being Jethro's designated point of contact, and the corresponding insinuation that she, Monty, was in charge.

"He can't see a thing from up there."

"Someone closed the curtain?"

"Yes…" another thought struck her, "…he wants more information before proceeding, so _my_ call."

For a moment there was silence, emphasis seemingly not lost on her opposite, but then the British woman spoke again. "And so just what would that call be?"

Frankly, there were not a whole lot of options.

"The walls here are thin, I'll see what can be heard from outside."

"What, and just stand in the corridor waiting to be spotted?"

"Breaking in would take longer, and I'm sure the boffins gave you some contrivance to see inside if we drag on."

It was hard to tell, but she was sure there was a fraction of a second's hesitation before the calm reply. "They did."

Internally, Monty grimaced: this was getting more dangerous by the second. Her face however remained impassive and, rummaging through store room shelving, she extracted a glass measuring cup.

"You're the less displaced looking here; check the corridor. I will follow."

That elicited little response beyond a curt nod, but rising, Katherine doused the single bulb, disappearing through the door and, enclosed by sudden dark, the cyborg waited, counting. Reaching ten with no indication things had gone awry, she followed in the other agent's wake.

That drew a dry expression, because right now she was trusting some signal _would _be given. Presuming Katherine was telling the truth, and was indeed here at Algy's behest, then Algy obviously had faith in her. Jethro had faith in Algy so, little as she liked it, the other woman's professionalism she was just going to have to give the benefit of the doubt… at least enough to back _herself_ over betrayal to the Orchid or Station H.

_No, her professionalism, here and now, was not in question, it was her judgement leaving something to be desired._

Outside was barely better lit than their storage room, defunct bulbs left un-replaced but, scanning the corridor's length, Monty quickly found her temporary companion's figure silhouetted before the next junction. Gliding silently up behind her, the young agent listened intently, before moving forward a few more steps to draw into the other's peripheral vision. Receiving a wordless nod, the girl moved again, turning from where Hong Kong's neon night streamed in from the terrace she had entered via on her previous visit, to move deeper into the building proper.

Stopping short of John's door however she knelt down, cup placed gently against the wall. The description of it as 'thin' bordered on understatement, plasterboard doing little to muffle sounds within. Zhang would have to be aware of that as well and, were he inside, her current position should put her closer any sotto conversation.

Hesitating, she closed her eyes, listening hard. Katherine had better be paying attention. Shuffling steps and muffled voices...

The sound of another footfall, closer this time, caused eyes to snap open, finding their SIS hanger on now crouched beside her.

"Anything?"

Monty removed her improvised stethoscope from discoloured paint, voice similarly hushed. "There's definitely someone there, but it's a job to work out whom. You had a way to look inside?"

"That I do." Getting to her feet, Katherine moved to the door, fingers lifting her loose shirt. "This won't take long."

"Careful, we can't be sure if it is actually them not."

"_You _may not be, but _I_ am."

With that her hand withdrew, clasping her chunky Glock and, realising what was about to happen, the cyborg darted forward.

Too late. Katherine's boot met timber with a resounding crash, lock tearing from its fitting and sending the panel clattering away, woman following moments later.

'_Way to look inside'. Droll._

Whatever her feelings though, they were committed, and the cyborg stepped quickly behind, chambering a round as she went, heavy Type 54 dropping smoothly in beside her rampant colleague to rest on four stunned faces: three standing, one bound, seated, and showing signs of interrogation. Vito and his captors.

Weapon not moving, she ran an eye over the remaining occupants. Lau she recognised, and Zhang. The third was slightly less expected, though only apparently for her, and it was Katherine who spoke. "Martin Case… I wish I could say this was an unpleasant surprise, but sadly I will have to settle for just the _unpleasant_ part."

Previously agreeably bland, Case's features were now beset by an ugly sneer. "Well, Fuji, you will be happy to know the feeling is mutual." His eyes flicked to the younger woman. "I see you've acquired Vesper, which I presume means Algernon's other failure is floating around nearby?"

At the words, Monty felt her grip clench but, forcing it to relax, she let her companion carry on the conversation rather than rise to the bait.

"Who knows, I only met up with half Vauxhall's current preferred gossip topic, no idea where the rest is." Her tone changed, next sentence obviously being addressed backward. "I don't think I told you, but you're famous, at least insofar as fame within a closed community can be. 'Jethro Blacker's mystery girl', be glad I didn't ask for an autograph."

_SIS famous: that was the last thing she needed._

Katherine though had already redirected her conversation back to the other agent. "Lovely though it would be to chat, Martin, I have a job on, and I suspect you're not the one in charge here, so continuing is a bit of a waste of my time… Captain Zhang, I believe you have something of ours and we'd rather like it back. Here is what is going to happen: you are going to release your captive, and walk him over. Then we are going to leave, all nice and civil. Keep it so, and me and my _mysterious_ friend here won't need to make a mess. Clear?"

There was a pause as Zhang studied her, People's Liberation Army uniform traded for a simple suit and tie. Between that, and his lackeys' rolled up sleeves revealing faint sheens of perspiration, it was a fair bet who had been doing the dirty work. Finally, though, he spoke, moving forward to begin freeing Vito from his chair.

"You seem very confident, Ms. Fuji."

The tone was cold, and hearing it Monty took a step back, putting a little more space between herself and Katherine, clearing her firing arc into the corridor. Something in that set her on edge, and if reinforcements were on the way, she needed to see them sooner rather than later.

"I'm good at that."

Unfortunately that movement also limited her view into the room. She could still hear though, and it sounded like Vito was already up, shuffling footfalls suggesting he was either very weak, or still bound, or both. That had been quicker than expected, disassembling the knots would have been an easy way for Zhang to drag things out…

She was already turning when the muffled yelp of surprise emanated from inside, just in time to see the Padan come stumbling toward Katherine. His distraction was momentary, but it was enough as Lau bolted in under the SIS agent's other side, palm strike smacking her gun away, following elbow driving into exposed solar plexus.

He was fast, really fast, far quicker than she had realised facing off in Mong Kok, but right now he was Katherine's problem. Zhang had gone the other direction, darting up the room's far flank, gun already drawn, and Monty ducked away as flimsy plaster exploded above her head. Rolling back to her feet the girl leaned around the corner again, loosing two shots in return before retreating. Hopefully Katherine would be bright enough to keep Lau close and not make herself a target, but there was no way they were going to get Vito out with the other three here now.

"Vesper!"

Rounding at Katherine's shout, the girl felt her pistol belted away, clattering across the floor, Zhang close behind the sweeping palm. She barely avoided his following strike, using its predecessor's momentum to spin clear. The effect was the same however, putting space enough between them for the captain to take aim, forcing her to dive back toward the T-junction and out of the line of fire which tore through aged vinyl.

Shouted Mandarin echoed down the corridor, and she stuck her head out once more, quickly withdrawing again as another shot ricocheted off hard flooring. Zhang was out of the apartment now, Martin herding Vito's battered form ahead as they made for the exit. If the army officer was half the fighter his henchman was then she had no chance engaging him hand-to-hand. She needed her gun back, and quickly.

Fighter or no though, it was a fair bet he would have her corner covered, charging out now would be suicide, and the girl counted off seconds. They couldn't be moving fast, not with Vito in tow; let them get a little farther ahead. Reaching zero, she rolled up into a crouch and, taking a deep breath, dashed out.

Nothing came to meet her, the hallway empty and, racing forward, she swept up her weapon on the way through. Hitting upper balustrade at a run, she looked into the stairwell.

Nothing. Empty. Had she let them get too far ahead?

Shuffling the Type 54 to her off hand Monty bolted down the stair, vaulting its centre to land on the lower flight, tumbling forward as shots zinged over her head. Her quarry was only the next landing down, Vito sandwiched between his captors, moving faster as he was dragged and pushed along. Martin's free arm cranked around again, firing blindly to keep her occupied as his companion turned, taking up station to cover the escape.

Not that the effort was needed, she couldn't return fire while they were so close, not in the stair's tight confines, not without risk of hitting Vito and hobbling her own escape.

Zhang had worked that one out also and, as she swung into view once more, he had changed positions again, keeping the Padania agent behind himself as they dropped another level.

And the next would be ground.

Awkward backstop or no, her next rounds went high, forcing the trio to duck also and, in the momentary distraction, Monty dashed forward, down onto the landing they had so recently vacated. Whipping around the concrete divider she fired wide again, sending lead zinging past Martin's ear, and he turned away, pistol reports echoing off concrete walls.

Ejecting her magazine she slammed a fresh one into place. She might not dare shoot too close, but she could herd them toward the alley exit and, glancing around again, she caught heels retreating that direction.

Finally, something going right.

* * *

The narrow gap dividing John's apartment window from food market walls offered a less frenetic evening pace, dim neon of laneway eateries serving only to deepen shadows, rather than match the bright night glowing at either end. Standing in one such darker patch, Jethro tried not to wince as more gunfire rang from the building behind.

So much for a quiet job.

Shifting, his eyes moved to the dark S-Class parked close to this flaking wall, black shape dusted in diamantes of rain, sparkling technicolour under flickering signage: not that there had ever been much hope to begin with, and slashed tyres or no, the Hong Kong taxi parked farther along was going to have a tough time outrunning it.

All the more reason to get it started then, rather than wait keeping the door clear, especially if Monty and Katherine were to be leaving in a hurry. Ensuring his movements remained relaxed, the handler started to turn away…

He never made it. Behind him, the exit slammed open, bouncing off crumbling concrete.

"_Get him in the car!"_

The words were terse, heavily accented by their urgency; a man's voice, and the spy whirled back. Vito was ejected first, thudding against the limousine's bonnet, Martin close behind, and Jethro froze. He wasn't the only one surprised, Station H man stopping mid-stride, face cracked in similar shock. It didn't last long however, and he was already blocking as the handler's first jab arrived. Slapping it away he caught the follow up, sliding through the open gap to land an elbow heavily into his opponent's chest. Jethro doubled over, gagging for breath as a knee rose to connect hard with his chin, sending him staggering backward.

Case's face was contorted into an ugly sneer as he advanced again, foot lashing out to whirl past his nose as he retreated another step.

"You always were shithouse in the ring, Blacker. Nice to see nothing's changed."

The SWA agent however was looking past him, grunting words out between laboured breaths.

"Your ride's… leaving."

Martin's head snapped around as, sure enough, tumbling from the building Zhang took one look at the disabled Mercedes and bolted toward bright lights, firing back as Monty emerged in his wake, taking aim but unable to reply into suddenly scattering crowds beyond. The distraction was again only momentary, but Jethro dove forward, driving into his opponent's kidneys. It was a clumsy movement, and elbows crashed down on his back in reply, sending him sprawling.

No follow up came however as a pistol's report sent the other man retreating behind the limousine's tall bonnet, more rounds smacking into thick metal.

"Skipper!"

Somewhere in the confusion, Vito had clambered upright, and at his partner's yell he launched himself at the fleeing Padan instead, bringing him crashing to sodden tarmac once more. Scrambling forward, Jethro pinned the man down, drawing him into a headlock, both arms still bound. Unfortunately though, he could only deal with one problem at a time and, seeing his chance, Martin fled, crashing through the door of a restaurant farther up as, from behind, came the sound of Monty's flat frustration.

"Bollocks."

_Too public for her to act, the gun was bad enough._

Catching his own breath, the handler hauled his mark to wavering feet, voice low as he leaned forward, letting a hint of the North creep into his words.

"You're nicked, sunshine."

There was no reply, and only thin resistance as he thrust the man toward their waiting transport. A glance back found Monty shoving a fresh magazine into her pistol, looking a little the worse for wear. Any concerns however were reluctantly cast aside: address the problem at hand first.

"Where's Mary?"

Still short of the car, his girl stepped ahead, opening a rear door. "Entertaining Lau."

"Well she had better hurry up. The police won't be…"

His sentence never finished as, from above, came the crash of glass, a dark figure plummeting amongst glittering shards to land with a sickening crunch through the waiting S-Class's windscreen, setting its alarm wailing.

"So not precisely _Camberwick Green_ then."

Dry commentary seemingly ignored, it took a moment to identify the motionless new arrival as Lau, red beginning to seep through his white shirt, and Jethro turned back to his limply goggling captive. "I wouldn't even _consider_ running in your shoes."

Monty was already slipping into the taxi passenger seat, away from prying eyes and, a minute later, Katherine emerged, plaster dust beginning to clog a bloody gash on one cheek. Twisting hair up behind her head she shoved a chopstick through it, limping to a halt before the waiting handler, and gestured to his current burden.

"I _said_ the car was theirs. You want me to look after that?"

Helping shove Vito in beside her on the back seat, Jethro moved quickly to the driver's side and, headlights blazing to life, he tore out onto night time streets, slithering across slick asphalt, for now content to put as much distance between themselves and the market district as possible. Not until they were a comfortable few blocks away did he slow, pulling from another side road more sedately to melt into the throng and, taking that cue, the SIS woman behind finally spoke.

"What happened to the other two?"

"Got away." Monty's voice was flat, and from the back seat came an exasperated sigh.

Strangely though, it was accompanied by a weak chuckle, and a male voice, twanging of Irish New York. "Well, I got bad news for you guys then, because you won't beat them getting anywhere."

"Fucking brilliant. This wouldn't have been a problem if we went earlier."

"And it _also_ wouldn't have been a problem had someone not rushed in like the proverbial china-shop bull."

Reaching over, out of sight behind the front bench seat, Jethro gave his partner's hand a calming squeeze but, again, it was Vito who replied. "What are you people? SIS?"

"For us to know and you not to." Monty's voice had returned to its natural rounded purr. "And how about you? I would _say_ ex-CIA, except I was under the impression they still encouraged at least some mild level of competency."

Ignoring that jab however, the other continued his previous line of conversation. "I thought the other guy was SIS as well. This does confuse the issue."

"Well, it's a _big_ world." Katherine's words cut in behind his, dripping condescending sarcasm. "I'm going to say he's probably corporate. That's how the Italians would have hired him."

No response.

The crack was sudden as it was violent. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Jethro found their captive sprawled against his door, eyes round in shock, a new red welt already rising on his bruised cheek and, across their companion's knuckles, metal glinted once more.

"Allow me to rephrase that: was it corporate?"

"I'd answer." Put in the handler casually. "There's good reason she is back there with you rather than up here."

A mumbled reply, lost behind traffic and street noise.

"Didn't catch that."

"Yeah, it was corporate."

Even without looking, Jethro could feel smugness radiating from the rear seat, and his hand tightened on Monty's again as Katherine continued.

"And does Mister Corporate have a name?"

Another mumble, quickly cut off as his temporary warden spoke once more. "We know you've been helping run the Italians' forging operation, so it needn't be your real one just yet… though that would be nice at some point too, and any others you might care to offer up. For now though, whichever you've been feeding them will do. I _hope_ you have at least been bright enough to give them an alias."

Silence, filled only with the click of an indicator as Jethro turned down another street. Finally, quiet words wafted over his shoulder from behind.

"It won't do you any good. Sorry to say, _they_ already know where to go."

When it came, Katherine's reply was a growl. "Maybe so. However, unless you want a repeat of your time in Second Department's care, I highly recommend you _start talking anyway_, beginning with where we should be headed."

* * *

Even at this hour there was always someone willing to swap money for transportation, the fall of darkness over Causeway Bay's sampan village sheeting it in bobbing, twinkling lights. Seemingly this was not Vito's first time on the water either, and it had not taken long for a tiny vessel to be signalled from that matted raft, captain greeting him by name. Not the Padania alias either, but as Vivian Makely… which at least aligned with that confessed under Katherine's tender hand.

Compared to Monty's last trip, the little craft rode steadier as they headed for Victoria Harbour's western entrance, more human scaled enclave of its home now lost at the base of Central's shifting cyberpunk skyline. Even here though, rainbow lights still washed across passengers in the darkened cockpit, and her eyes flicked up to contemplate Vito's outline, slender fingers massaging at one shoulder. Even with bindings released, Chinese attentions seemed to have drained him of fight and, with minimal prodding, he had leaked information like a sieve. It was just a pity none of it had been of a variety particularly useful to _her_, and nor would it be until their SIS companion could be removed from the picture.

_Damned if she knew how that was going to happen._

And, of course, that presumed information given so freely was indeed accurate and not simple game playing, a theory she may have entertained more readily had he actually been ex-CIA. As it stood however, while a cut above what the Padania mustered generally, he still showed all signs of being very much a pub league player, one who suddenly found himself on the stadium floor, though there were better judges of that as well.

Voice remaining low, she leaned toward her partner, stretching up to bring soft lips closer his ear. "What do you think?"

"Hmm?"

He slouched down, letting her speak more easily.

"What do you think, are we headed the correct direction? Or are we being fed a line?"

There was a pause and, in it, fingers brushed against her knee, giving it a quick, comforting squeeze. "Gut feel? I don't think there's enough fight left in him to lie, not while we are all rubbing shoulders at least."

"He couldn't be sending us to some pre-arranged setup?"

Another pause. "I doubt so, he didn't say much when we boarded, and he didn't seem to be reaching for specific words either. Even the SIS struggles getting its agents to slip in code phrases without sounding artificial… and that's presuming he even thought to organise one in advance."

"He did appear somewhat surprised to have run into trouble this far from home."

Silence again, sounds of closely packed humanity distant behind the engine's slow vibration and, in the darkness, her thumb once more began to circle the former bullet wound. As it did however, a strong hand clamped over hers, lifting it away to be guided back to her side.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Feeling her partner's arm withdraw she gave him a thin smile, its accompanying words wry. "That would be the first time you paid me anything."

"Only because you're stingy with my pocket money."

That elicited a small snort, but the look remained. "The comment regards being short on fight with all of us present; if we are going to the right place, I can't help but note there will probably be more of _his_ friends present than ours."

"That had occurred to me, yes. How are you for ammunition?"

"Just what's in the gun."

Reaching behind himself, Jethro withdrew a slender stick of metal, brass glinting at one end. "Here."

Accepting the eight round magazine gratefully, she slipped it into a pocket as he spoke again. "Look on the upside, if his intention really is to trap us, we're likely closing in on where we need to be."

That earned another unimpressed expression but, squeezing her knee again, he continued, this time in slightly louder tones. "Either way, we should find out soon enough."

Behind, rainbow skyscrapers were finally beginning to fade under misting rain, replaced by warm light forward. Not homely boat lamps, but the sickly ooze of sodium, glowing behind silhouetted coastal freighters as they swung at heavy moorings. In the murk of towering steel, riding lights and the occasional window glimmered as skeleton crews went about their business on high floating, empty hulls. The more modern would probably find employment soon enough, but scattered amongst those, spindly deck cranes stood atop vessels unlikely to put to sea again, and the rotting break bulk tramp toward which Vito's sampan steered most certainly fell into that latter category.

In the dimness, strong eyes picked out rust-streaked hull plates, formerly black, a thinner belt of red below indicating some variety of cargo… or leaks kept barely under control. Graceful lines however still curved back from a raised forecastle to meet at the rounded stern, long, mid-set superstructure dividing the ship's holds, serviced by a clutch of wood-boomed derrick cranes. What was surprising was that the Padania had been willing to pay for such a large vessel, though her condition would probably have made a decent bargaining chip.

Eyes running back toward the prow, Monty's gaze settled on white script beneath Chinese characters, '_MV Nanking Queen_', but, as they did, another thought struck her. Of course, a ship this age and design would have been designed to take passengers as well, and she would certainly be large enough to appear sparsely populated, even with a print shop staff running in shifts.

There was a bump as their tender nosed in beside the towering hull, into strong light shining from above, its wielder lost in the glare. Standing from his seat, Vito waved up, and the lamp snapped off, replaced by a wood and flax pilot's ladder tumbling over the side and splashing into water at the sampan's bow.

The light came on again and, catching Katherine's eye, Monty jerked her head toward the Padan. "Come up after me, someone's going to need to haul this one along."

Fortunately, for once, the other woman did not argue, instead standing to drag her captive aside. As she did, the cyborg's sharp hearing picked up muttered words. "I hope you remember your part now, because if not you're liable to be taking a long walk off a short plank."

Not waiting to hear the reply she continued past, reaching for heavy rope as it slapped lazily against corroded steel. Before she got any further however a hand settled on her shoulder, squeezing it and, turning slightly, she found her partner there, deck boards wallowing as his weight came forward. Flashing a quick smile in return, the girl swung out onto wooden rungs.

_Relieving. The last thing she had wanted was Jethro going up first._

Moving quickly across faded paint, the girl was soon slowing as she neared its top. Closer now, she could just make out faces behind of the light, Chinese faces, so either they were in the wrong spot after all, or the Padania had not considered it worth shipping their own labour out from Europe. Either way, she could probably assume they would not be on her side.

Clambering aboard with both hands occupied was thus not ideal but, reaching the final rung, she paused briefly, allowing strong arms to haul her over the gunwale. It was a fine balance, let them help too much and her weight may be noticed, too little and she lost the protection of proximity and, clearing wood railing, she glanced around. Helpers notwithstanding, only one other figure stood on the deck, just before wide cargo hatch doors, his hand resting inside an overall pocket.

Feet landing with a clunk, she moved aside to clear the access, using the moment to study her opposite further. He did not look happy to see her. However, he had also not shot her, so that was probably a start.

Katherine was next up, turning immediately to assist in hauling the injured Vito aboard and, as he straightened, the man stepped forward, speaking in accented English, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"_Néih hóu_, Mr. Makely. I hope the climb was not to… difficult?"

"It gets harder every time, you could really do with installing a boarding stair."

Still to one side, Monty quietly noted the not entirely natural delivery, face remaining impassive. Well, at least it gave her something to measure against. Whether that be good or bad though, there would be no backing out now and, as Jethro clambered up, Vito continued. "I would like to see Roberto if he is around."

"Of course, are you armed?"

"No, but _they_ are… fortunately."

The crewman's eyes ran quickly over the three assembled spies. "You will need to hand over your weapons."

"I would prefer we were paid first." Monty's voice was flat.

This time there was the slightest hesitation in Vito's response, and the girl gave an internal wince as he glanced reflexively toward Katherine, face obviously concerned over the prospect of receiving another thrashing.

"Sorry, house rules... no-one but the guards. You can ask Roberto for them back once we meet him, he runs the operation here."

"Not likely." The other woman sounded even less enthusiastic.

"Then don't expect to move much farther."

Now it was Jethro's turn to speak, hand giving his girl's shoulder a squeeze. "Go on, play along for now. We're all on the same side here."

Somewhat reluctantly, the cyborg drew her Type 54, handing it over with its spare magazine, while her partner did the same. Katherine took a little longer, a second Glock appearing from her ankle and, as that was surrendered also, Monty felt rough palms settle on her, working their way down. Reaching a boot, probing fingers found the folding knife wedged there and, extracting it, their owner seemed to decide that warranted a second, more intimate, inspection, and her face hardened as he stretched the experience out.

Their British compatriot did not fare much better, however finally the searchers seemed to have satisfied themselves, standing back as the head guard looked them over once more.

"Is that it?"

"Yes."

He did not seem entirely convinced but, devoid of an excuse to repeat the exercise, gestured for them to follow.

"Come. Roberto is below."

Allowing Katherine and Vito to take the lead, Monty fell in wordlessly with her handler, conscious of the two pairs of boots tramping immediately behind. From here she could get a better look at _Nanking Queen's_ layout, what appeared to be two holds forward, derrick cranes positioned ahead of each. Two smaller booms flanked the superstructure, their twins aft servicing a single stern hatch, spindly forms catching dim light from the few illuminated deckhouse windows on its four storey face, shaded by walkways on each side above raised hull plating. The bridge occupied its top level, backed by tall vents before an even higher funnel and, glancing up at it as they were guided toward steep ladders, the cyborg thought she could see shadows move behind darkened glass.

That made sense, quite possibly the Padania would have positioned a sniper to cover the welcoming committee's innocent public face.

Letting her partner go first, Monty put herself in the single file between him and those bringing up the rear, before being ushered inside past faded life rings. Ducking through an open door, the girl grimaced again as it became evident they would remain strung out for some time yet, and she heard heavy steel close behind.

Despite being out of sight, their guide did not slow, directing the party down through an open hatchway into thicker scents of oil, salt, and mildew. Seemingly _Nanking Queen_ was just as ill kept below as she was above decks and, as they descended another level, Monty maintained close attention on her surrounds. Somewhere in the background could be heard the thrum of a diesel generator, though its power was obviously being sent some place other than lighting, those bulbs still operational dimly illuminating once white paint.

Other mechanical sounds could be heard now, the unmistakeable rasp of a printing press going about its business and, pushing open another door to the squeal of protesting hinges, the little party was ushered onto a wide tween deck, gaping hole at its centre offering crane access into the lower hold. Crates and pallets were stacked up against hull plating, but it was what lay below which caught Monty's eye.

Moving to stand beside one of the slender pillars running from keel to main deck, she peered down. Someone had rigged up bright floodlights to point inward, probably adding much to the hold's stifling atmosphere and, under white light, overall-clad humanity bustled, tending to the antique mechanical train churning away at their centre. Here, finally, lay the Padania forging operation's beating heart.

To one side of flowing workers stood a pair of men, both patently a long way from home, height and features marking them of European stock, pouring over a large paper sheet: freshly produced, properly intaglio printed, forgeries, spread across a long wood table amongst lamps and tins of ink. Literally hot off the press.

"Roberto!"

At Vito's shout one looked up and, excusing himself from the conversation, hurried toward another steep ladder. Confined to ship or no, Roberto was apparently still perfectly fit, and it was not long before he reached their own deck. As he approached, Monty took a moment to study him more closely: a shirt with sleeves rolled up and olive skin, dark, short cropped hair marking him as likely from more southerly heritage. However, when he spoke, it was with a distinct Lombard accent.

"Vivian!" Halting, he embraced the American, causing that latter to wince. "I had all but given you up for dead!"

Vito managed a weak smile. "I gave _myself_ up for dead a few times…"

He seemed about to continue, but the forger was already talking. "I reported to the old men you'd been snatched but, well, you know what they are like…"

Another weak smile. "That I do."

"…and I would have pulled us out already, if the _Lea-king_ here was safe to move. How did you escape?"

Standing aside, Vito now gestured toward the Blacker group. As he did however, the watching cyborg noticed their former guide had disappeared and, glancing around, she found him headed for the ladder, descending its steep steps. Attention remaining politely on the conversation, she watched as he began to move through workers below. It could be he was simply a foreman for the operation, but still…

"Roberto, let me introduce Shaun, Vesper, and Mary. Apparently your message got through, they were sent to extract me."

"We patched him up as best we could," put in Jethro, "but the Chinese did quite a job."

"That sounds surprisingly agile for the old men."

The words were light, but at them Monty winced internally again, noting that opinion on the Padania leadership's responsiveness away for later reference.

It was, however, Vito who answered. "Well, I'm working on them, and they're getting better, finally realising field ops do not wait for the boardroom."

"You would think this operation warranted slightly higher priority…" that was Jethro and, this time, both Padans turned as he nodded toward the press, "…all things considered."

That got a wry snort from Roberto. "They like the product, it's having to pay for it that seems to slow them down."

"Nice to know that does not change wherever you are…" her handler's voice suddenly became harder, "…though I hope they are not so parsimonious when it comes to our own compensation."

The guide was back now, a group of workers in tow loaded down with ink rollers, headed toward a stack of crates. At the last sentence however, the forger's expression froze, and his eyes snapped back to Vito.

"They're _not_ ours?"

"I suspect your leadership did not have anyone in the area."

Monty's words were dry, quite in contrast to their opposite's reply.

"You can be quiet!" He rounded on Vito. "So they _aren't_ ours! What the fuck did you bring them here for?"

"Settle, we're here to do a job, and I like my reputation intact." Jethro's words were calm. "Pay what we are due, and we will be on our way, nothing seen. Though if you could give us our kit back that would be appreciated."

"You brought them here fucking _armed_ as well Vivian? I thought you were supposed to patch holes, not do dumb shit like this! Why?"

"Because I needed somewhere to lay low, so did they, and the _Lea-King_ is about as low as it's possible to get..." Vito's words were calm, but laced with vitriol and, as he uttered them, his eyes flicked toward where the group of workers had gone.

Monty's heart sank.

"…Also, I thought it would be easier to dispose of them here, they're fucking _SIS_."

"Down!" The word was shouted and, fitting actions to it, the cyborg leapt, tackling her handler as fire scythed over their heads. She wasn't the only one moving either, both guards diving, as did Roberto. Vito began to duck, but Katherine was suddenly there, swinging the Padan in front of herself just as the first volley arrived. Some tried to check their shots, but it was too late, and Monty bit back a curse as bullets slammed into him, kicking up puffs of red. That pause however was all the SIS agent needed. Dropping her dying shield she charged, keeping low, sweeping up one of the discarded rollers as she went.

Two more steps, and the heavy bludgeon came around, slamming into the side of one assailant, knocking the wind from him. Using the impact to reverse her turn, Katherine continued on, impromptu weapon tracking up and over to hammer down on the next man's rifle. Gunfire roared as he reflexively yanked the trigger back, lead ricocheting off steel plating, almost immediately silenced by the heavy boot which rose to meet a lowered chin.

The crack of bone was audible even from where Monty lay, snapping her back to the present. Her guards were up now, trying to flee, and a foot lashed out, catching one around the ankles, toppling him over. Releasing her own partner, the girl leapt forward to smash her victim's head into the deck.

One un-resisting hand gave up her pistol and, drawing a bead on the second guard she put two rounds cleanly through his retreating back. Two more dropping him for good.

The other direction, Katherine had already dealt with another assailant, but that had been long enough for the others to recover, and she dove for the protection of ransacked crates as fire shattered them to splinters above her. Rolling up into a crouch, Monty swung her pistol up. Her first shot went wide, but its followers caught the farthest man, and as he fell the Type 54's slide locked back.

Their SIS companion however had not been moving blindly and, emerging from cover at a run, she drove the roller full force into the base of their final assailant's spine. He crumpled instantly, and the bludgeon rose again, landing on his skull with a sickening crack.

The whole thing had lasted maybe ten seconds, shouts from lower decks all the louder for silence left in its wake.

_Whatever else she might be, Katherine was certainly handy in a fight, probably more so than many cyborgs…_ Monty hid a wry smile_… and likely more stable to boot._

Salvaging what she could from their dead guards, the girl held out her partner's pistol.

"You okay?"

Roberto had, unsurprisingly, disappeared and, turning from where the forger had lain, Jethro reached out to take his weapon. "Always, you?"

"So far."

That was met with a wry grin as she fell into step, spent magazine dropping to make way for her final spare. Heading for where Katherine was inspecting one of the discarded rifles she watched it thrown away in disgust and, as they approached, Monty cocked an eyebrow.

"No good?"

The woman shook her head, scowling. "Not unless your primary aim with a rifle is to have it blow up in your face. I thought the Italians were meant to be well funded."

Holding out the smaller Glock, Monty's voice was dry. "I get the distinct impression this side of the planet is still a mystery to them, they might as well be trying to buy ray guns from Narnia."

"You only found the twenty-seven?"

"Afraid so. I suspect someone already nicked your other."

"Not for want of trying…" interrupted Jethro, "…but, I doubt you managed to kill _quite_ everyone just now. We need to get moving."

"What and leave empty handed? You've got to be shitting me."

"Beats burial at sea. You heard them, they won't move the ship and she's not seaworthy anyway. Now we know where to, I'm sure Algy can rustle up reinforcements quickly enough."

"I'm sure he can, but I also want that press in one…"

She never finished the sentence.

Wherever Roberto had gone, apparently it had been to get help, and now that was arriving from the upper decks, carrying crowbars and axes appropriated along the way.

_The press really must have been running in shifts. No wonder only the guards were armed, it would be that or risk mutiny._

Monty's first shot caught the lead man, but then Jethro had fingers around her arm, dragging her after him.

"This way!"

Katherine however was already firing the other direction as more closed in from the forward hold, and her slide locked back, empty. Dropping the Glock she swept up a discarded rifle, sending it scudding through the air to catch another attacker in the stomach, continuing her turn to face the Blackers.

"Go down!"

Not that they really had much a choice and, dropping another enemy the cyborg swung onto the ladder, sliding toward the lower hold. Feet had barely hit deck sole however when her gun was slapped away, clattering into the distance, and she was already ducking, next strike glancing from steel rungs as she spun around behind.

Her new assailant was not the only one present though, and strong arms closed, pinning hers in place.

The next strike didn't miss, catching her hard in the stomach, its follow through however kicked aside. Doubling up, she lashed out with both heels, slamming its deliver into the ladder. Unbalanced also, the worker behind tottered and, landing again, boot soles skidded on steel, pushing them both backward to crash through waiting wood and bamboo.

Using the fall, Monty brought her head back hard, rewarded by the crack of breaking cartilage, and the bear hug relaxed. Scrambling clear of its grasp, she saw the remains of what they had landed on, chop sticks and crockery strewn amongst shattered planks. Probably the shift's break area.

No time to rest though, and another impact sent her sprawling face first into the wreckage. Coughing, she rolled aside, heavy ink roller bouncing again off the deck where she had lain. Dodging another strike, desperate fingers reached out, closing around the first thing they touched, hurling it at the wielder. Whatever had been in the little pot was apparently hot, and he screamed as it smashed across pockmarked features, hands flying to burning eyes. Catching his dropped weapon, Monty was back on her feet, swinging hard into the side of his skull.

By now however those remaining were crowding around the ladder, some already beginning to climb and, turning, the girl jabbed her impromptu club between rungs, catching the uppermost man in the stomach. He dropped, landing on the next in line to send both tumbling atop compatriots below. That was another few seconds in the bank, but she had to keep the entry clear and, stepping forward, the roller was brought scything vertically across its face, forcing those at its base tottering back. Another swing, this time low and broad, raking enemies in front, widening the clearing further, and again.

That was all she was getting though, and the group was suddenly surging once more, a giant of a man erupting from its face to bring his axe crashing into suddenly raised metal. Cyborg or no, the impact forced her down, a following boot sending her sprawling, head rebounding off corroded steel, own weapon bouncing away as the axe rose again.

Pistol shots rang out from behind, and the blade paused, red blossoms appearing on its wielder's chest. He paused, eyes wide, and suddenly she was being dragged backward as he toppled.

"You okay luv?" Crouching above his partner, Jethro watched her head loll back.

Not waiting for a response he hauled her farther away, crowd scattering under his fire until the pistol's slide locked open. Empty. Looking at it in disgust, the handler threw it aside just as Katherine landed on the lower deck. Rolling forward the SIS agent ducked under her enemy's reach, driving an elbow into the sternum of one, continuing the motion to kick another hard in the groin. Not even she could fight that many however, a powerful return knee strike sending her tumbling into the access's base.

She needed something to even the odds.

Glancing behind himself, the handler's fingers closed around a length of bamboo, once part of the demolished break area.

"Mary!"

Bringing his arm forward sent the pole skidding over uneven metal, and the woman was up again, torqueing it in a wide arc, smacking hollowly across encircling faces to halt in a low fighting stance, new weapon once more at her back.

"Head for the press! Get away from this bloody ladder!"

With that she brought the impromptu stave through again, pounding it into the deck, causing her opponents to jump back. Pivoting on that point its tail came around, and she held the pole low, thrusting forward to push off-balanced fighters back with a roar, opening a path.

Hoisting his still dazed partner up, Jethro charged for the still running press as sounds of fighting erupted again.

Laying Monty beside it, he turned whence he had come. The table Roberto had been working on could be seen more clearly now, but that was for later. Katherine was headed their direction, retreating from the mob as it was reinforced by decks above, bamboo still whirling and jabbing into their midst.

A noise from the recumbent cyborg however made him spin around, just in time to receive the lone remaining operator's blow clean across the face which sent him crashing onto the table. Not pausing, the worker fell atop him, hands tightening around his neck, face contorted in fury, chocking breath away. Return punches found ribs and kidneys to no effect, but flailing fingers brushed something and, not caring what it was, the handler swung hard. The lamp's bulb shattered as it scraped across his assailant's face, and again, forcing the bloodied man away. Seizing that respite, Jethro lashed out, felling stumbling feet and, scrambling upright once more, he brought the exposed contacts down atop his opponent's chest.

The scream didn't last long.

"Shaun! A little help!"

Katherine was backed up against the press now, pole still whirling but, as he watched, it was torn from her grasp, and the woman dropped, ducking under the next blow to drive a fierce uppercut under her victim's chin. She was back to fists again, one on one, more than she could handle alone and, glancing around, Jethro sent the table crashing over, throwing his weight behind to charge into the crowd.

Shouts erupted as he slammed into their front row, a one-man rugger line… and one man wasn't going to get far, no matter how surprising his arrival. Grinding to a halt he ducked as piping splintered the upper edge. Its owner wasn't done yet however, slamming it down again and, fingers closing, the spy yanked it away, reversing to strike hard across the protruding face. Scuttling back he brought the pipe up, waving two handed before him.

Then the lights went.

There was no warning, the hold plunged into darkness and confused shouts but, seconds later, gunfire erupted from above, orange flashes leapfrogging their way forward to completely encircle the tween deck. No shots replied and, as the last volley petered out, silence fell, broken only by the still rasping press.

"On your knees! Hands behind your heads!" The voice was loud, twang of South London cutting through the dark as it repeated its order in Cantonese.

From somewhere else in the ship came the heavy clunk of a breaker closing and, as high intensity lamps glowed to life once more, he could see black-clad commandos ringing high railing, submachineguns trained down into the lower hold.

"I said on your knees!"

Around him, surviving Padania workers were already complying and, eyes still on the group above, Jethro raised his own hands, placing them on the back of his head to also kneel. At best count there were maybe ten around the upper reaches, probably half that number again already dropping into the lower hold, gathering to move through the silent crowd. As they did however, one of the new arrivals stopped, looking his direction before placing fingers to a balaclava clad ear.

Whoever the soldier had been talking to was quick to respond and, grabbing another, similarly garbed, man, he made his way over, hands folding atop the MP5 slung from his neck.

"Well, well, Jef-ro Blacker…" he sniffed, "…got me sum-mun wants to see you. If you could kindly hold still…"

The man's subordinate had disappeared from view, but now fingers like bananas grasped him roughly, hauling arms down to be zip-tied behind his back. Glancing up he could see the ship's former crew being herded toward the shattered remains of their break area, compliant despite their lack of bindings. Obviously the commandos knew who they were after though as, while he watched, Roberto was also brought in to be dumped with the workers.

Another thud sounded as Monty was deposited beside him and, keeping his voice low, he muttered quietly.

"You okay?"

The reply was dry, reasonable sign she had suffered no lasting trauma. "For a given value of okay."

"Out of the frying pan and all that."

"Quiet, the pair of you." Those words were growled, and the fratello lapsed into silence as Katherine was placed also into their midst. "Don't worry, the boss'll be along shortly."

'Shortly', as it turned out, was a relative description. Trussed up and guarded, finding a comfortable position was not on the cards, and Jethro's knees were well and truly aching by the time hard soled shoes sounded above. Giving up meagre attempts to try and relieve pressure, the spy returned to stillness as a suited figure began to make its way down the ladder. Clanging to a halt, it moved aside as Martin and Zhang both descended in its wake, the former still, insofar as he could tell, looking slightly worse for wear.

Not that he was going to get a better view, as the Station H man was quickly intercepted by a commando, both turning toward Padania prisoners, leaving Zhang and his companion to begin toward the press.

_Charlie._

While his Chinese associate was by no means short, the Far East Head of Station stood a good half foot taller, snowy white hair slicked back from a prominent brow to match the finely waxed moustache sprouting beneath a boxer's nose. Even in the hold's heat, his three piece suit remained immaculately fastened over a classically broad shouldered physique, grey-brown fabric set off by the Harrow School tie and matching navy pocket square.

_Not that the running ambivalence between him and Algy could be rightly attributed to simple public school rivalry._

That was all the thinking he had time for however as the area's chief spy came to a smart halt, gaze running over the press before settling on his kneeling captives.

"So, this is the best Algernon could throw together was it? Nice to know he's still _incapable_ of doing something tidily. Still, I should thank him, you three have saved me some significant amount of effort..." now, he turned directly on Jethro, continuing in clipped, sneering tones, "…though, despite paining me to say it, not as much effort as I _hoped_. You've made this far more bothersome than I would have preferred Blacker, maybe getting away from the old fool has done you some good after all."

"It's nice to see you again too, Charlie."

"Pity I cannot say the feeling is mutual, though it is rather pleasant to have so many problems gathered neatly in one place… especially as we are no longer on the same side."

"Wilkes…" Zhang's voice was sharp, and the SIS man turned as he continued, "…our deal." Stepping forward he knelt before Monty, bringing his face close and grasping her chin to turn it left and right. "You can take the larger cut, but I want them alive. There is something, _special_, about this one, and I want to know what it is."

"Ah yes, our deal, our _new_ deal… are you still sure about that? You do realise simply being pretty doesn't make a girl special. Fun, yes, but not special… or was it just the fun you wanted?"

"No, more than that. I do not know what, but it is something, and I suspect The Party would reward anyone who could find out what she knows and how… highly."

Still bound, Jethro kept his expression flat, not an easy task and, in the corner of his vision, Monty looked similarly wooden. What had it been? Her run in with Lau? His partner was brighter than to give herself away so easily. Or was the Orchid man just working on a particularly strong hunch? Either way, he was fairly certain any investigation of _specialness_ was not something she would greatly enjoy.

He had to get her out of here.

Charlie's sneer however had returned. "Getting cold feet are we? Prefer to buy your way back into the chairman's pocket? If so, I hope you've not been spreading that plan around."

"Of course not."

"Good. Captain?"

Zhang's head turned slightly at that, presenting his temple neatly to the suppressed shot which cracked from behind the kneeling row. For a second nothing happened, but then he crumpled, shock still spread across movie-star features.

Letting the moment drag out, Charlie finally turned a contemptuous smile on his subjects. "Stupid boy. No matter how tall their buildings are the whole place is still just bloody savages. Useful, but still stupid."

"Is that your plan for the rest of us?"

Katherine's words were surprisingly calm, conversational almost and, turning his eyes as far as they would go, Jethro found her now looking up at their captor.

There was a pause, and the reply which broke it shared the same tone.

"Sadly not, there are a few things I wish to learn myself first. I already know _your_ sins, Katherine, but offing you too early might upset Vauxhall, and Blacker I couldn't really care less about except…" Now it was the Station Head's turn to crouch before Monty, one hand brushing her thigh, before working its way over small breasts to run up her neck, finally settling beneath her chin, and Jethro fought down his own quivering rage. Not that it showing would have mattered, Charlie now staring intently into the girl's eyes, inches from her scowling face.

"…except there is _you_. Jethro Blacker's mystery girl, the black box, Vauxhall's flavour of the month for locker room gossip and idle speculation. Just what could entice the famously frivolous _Jethro Blacker_ to hang on to _you_? It can't be just fun and games, he bores of playthings too quickly. So why have _you_ not ended up on the rubbish heap, or in a casket, with all the rest?" The tone had changed now, no longer conversational, words once more laced with vicious contempt. "The Chink was right about one thing: you _are_ special. _You_ I should very much like to know more about."

Releasing the girl, Charlie stood again, voice taking on clipped superiority as he addressed the commando still standing to their rear. "Put them somewhere safe Captain, and get this ship checked over. I want to be underway within the hour."

"And the forgers?"

Pausing, the SIS man looked languidly toward where Roberto's crew was placed.

"Find those willing to help, kill the rest."

"Can do, boss."

From behind Jethro came a swish of air, and the world went black.


	15. CH14 Six Degrees of Separation

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

**Chapter 14|Six Degrees of Separation**

The world heaved.

Where was he?

He _had_ been knelt in _Nanking Queen's_ hold…

The world moved again, less this time, settling into a gentle sway, bringing with it searing pain and setting his stomach churning. It would be easier just to sink back down into oblivion…

"You finally awake?"

The descent stopped. That voice he knew. _That_ voice he couldn't sink away from, he wanted closer, pain and nausea be damned. Suddenly easy darkness did not seem so welcoming and, latching onto those words, he clung to them as reality came rushing back in.

Jethro groaned.

"About time you were up."

Head lolling over, he peeled open clammy eyes to peer blearily around. Someone had placed him on a rather dank mattress, the only berth in this compact, wood panelled, cabin. Katherine was slumped at a small table, sprawling across it beneath the dim glow of a solitary bulb, apparently still unconscious.

Closer, another chair had been placed at his side, Monty studying him quietly from it, one slender leg crossed over the other.

He groaned again, words finally croaking from dry vocal chords. "How long was I out?"

"A couple of hours."

At his back, one still bound hand groped across the opposite wrist, finding cool, angular, metal. Apparently they had been nice enough to leave him his watch at least. Curling up he wiggled arms forward, trying to get them under tucked legs and sending a fresh wave of nausea crashing over him… though actually reading it would need to wait for another time.

Letting that queasy bout pass, he took another deep breath, before hauling himself upright, surroundings blurring again and, panting, Jethro turned to look at his partner.

She hadn't moved, face still impassive.

"How about you? How long were you out?"

"Not long, I woke up on the way here," he was treated to a thin smile, "seems someone didn't hit me quite hard enough."

So, she had been awake the entire time. Looking closer, he could just make out strain edging delicate features. Supreme self-control or no, she remained a cyborg, and those few hours wondering would have been hard on her. Not to mention that was two solid hits to the head in one day, something which wold need checking over next they were in Rome...

Glancing around the room again, his eyes swung past the apparently still slumbering Katherine.

…though here was not the place to voice that thought.

Gaze settling once more on his partner, he raised brows questioningly, and her reply was quick coming.

"We can talk, quietly. I already checked for bugs, but there is at least one guard on the door. I suspect Charlie is somewhat shorthanded."

Now he gave her a wry grin of his own, sliding further along the bare mattress to lean closer. "Good, what else can you tell me?"

"Not a whole lot," the words accompanied a sardonic expression, "but we seem to be headed south, at a guess toward Borneo or Sulawesi."

"He might not even need to go that far, plenty of places to quietly lose oneself down here." Giving a beat to change subject, Jethro's voice lowered. "Can you break the cuffs?"

"Probably, but I was going to give it a little longer. We've been underway for a bit now, so it's only a matter of time before our host comes visiting, and when he does it would probably behove me to remain bound."

'_And I couldn't risk acting with you two still out',_ added Jethro in the privacy of his own head. Hopefully his tardy return to consciousness had not put them in even deeper hot water.

Any thoughts toward sharing that opinion were however cut short by a groan from the table. Conversation halting momentarily, two pairs of eyes swung toward Katherine as she peeled herself from its surface to slouch back in her chair, gazing drunkenly around their cabin.

"Nice of you to join us."

Monty's tone was dry, and the reply was still half grumble.

"Oh leave it out..." the SIS agent paused, squeezing eyes shut briefly and shaking her head as if struggling to focus, before continuing, "…I didn't see either of you doing much toward saving our collective arses."

Jethro's gaze flicked toward his girl, suddenly badly wishing for use of his hands. Any retort was however thought better of, and she instead heaved a sigh. "Well, not all of us are interested in channelling _Boudicca_."

The spy held his breath, silence filled only with the quiet creaks and mechanical throb of a ship underway. Finally though, a wry chuckle issued from the table, and the woman there slumped forward, head clonking against its wooden surface, before she rolled sideways to study them once more.

"Touché. Alright, so where are we at?"

It did not take long for Monty to repeat her rundown and, as she finished, the other raised her eyebrows.

"And so what time is it now? I would offer you my watch, but I think it's been nicked."

Closer inspection revealed her wrists to indeed be bare. "I take it then you are a better patron of Q-Branch's arts than I ever was."

"Don't know, am I?"

Twisting in his seat, Jethro waited while Monty read the brown 3-Timer currently at his back.

"Just gone four."

"In the morning?"

"No, it's just a particularly dark afternoon."

More silence as sarcasm trailed away. Jethro did not trust himself to stand just yet but, scooting closer his partner, he leaned forward to plant lips on the top of her head.

Katherine, however, gave a resigned sigh. "Yes, _alright_… but, that still gives us an hour or two of darkness to work in, and I would like to be back on deck sooner rather than later."

"And achieve _what_, precisely?" The girl's tone was dry again. "Lest you'd not noticed, there are still only three of us, and this ship is crawling with Charlie's cronies… a problem I might add, we only have through charging in without a plan in the first place."

"Yes, and if they'd not arrived we'd be guests of the Italians instead. Or dead. At least now the pair of them have had a chance to thin each other out."

"Only barely, and all escaping now will serve is to alert what remains earlier. Let Charlie come gloat a little, I presume he will, _then _we can look to making an exit."

Whatever retort had been forming on Katherine's lips was cut short by the sound of footsteps outside, followed by muffled speech and, putting a little distance between himself and his partner once more, Jethro slouched against the bunk's backing bulkhead. More voices, but then there was the sound of a latch retracting, and the door swung open.

In her chair, Monty's eyes narrowed as Martin stepped through. Some time since their last meeting he had gained an MP5, held low but ready as Charlie followed, still not a hair out of place. Glancing past however, she was granted a glimpse into the passageway beyond, a single commando standing guard.

Apparently the Far East head of station also noticed her interest as, pausing, he turned to say something through the opening, before sealing it softly behind.

Even so, that seemed to support her theory that the Station H contingent remained shorthanded.

Any further musings would however need to wait as, pulling out the cabin's final remaining chair, Charlie settled himself atop it, studying his captives over steepled fingers, content to let them contemplate the gravity of their situation. In her own seat, Monty took up a pose of mirrored nonchalance, or as close as manageable with hands still bound, returning his gaze with polite interest.

When he finally spoke however, it was not to her.

"Well it's nice you are finally up, Blacker. Frankly I was hoping for sooner, but I guess I can't expect too much… especially as I see you remain content to play Algy's gopher. How long has it been now? Five? Six? Years since exiting Her Majesty's coddling bosom? And you've still not left his shadow."

The girl concentrated on keeping her face impassive. Glancing toward her partner would be a mistake but, when his reply came, it remained calm.

"When it's mutually beneficial I really don't mind."

The words hung, but the response was not what she had expected, Charlie's expression changing not to anger or scorn, but rather a pitying Cheshire Cat grin. The smug condescension of someone with a secret and, for the first time since Jethro had come around, she felt an edge of unease.

"I always knew you were dense Blacker, but I had not reckoned as to just _how_ dense. Did you still think you are here of your own volition? That your old master had thrown you a bone to avenge sadly deceased Nick and Shamus? If so I have bad news, because if that was your intent you could have stopped searching _weeks_ ago." Pausing, his focus changed, locking to their companion. "Isn't that right, _Katherine_?"

The woman's eyes narrowed and, when they came, her words were cold.

"Be _very_ careful what you say next, Wilkes."

Monty's mind however was racing: if Charlie was aware of Nick and Shamus, then that meant the SIS had been far better informed back to, at least, Monaco, than previously thought. The real concern though was how much more they knew: did they just get lucky to join the story at that point? Or did their knowledge run deeper? If Monaco were still viewed as a group of crooks acting up that was fine but, if SWA involvement came to light…

Charlie was talking again.

"Believe me, _girl_, Official Secrets is going to be the least of my worries should Vauxhall catch up now. Besides, I don't see why you are so concerned, all _you_ did was pull the trigger…" now he turned back to Jethro, face hardening, "…that, and screw up so thoroughly Algernon felt he need parachute in a _decoy_. Fortunately for him some people are predictable enough to be used like that, and oblivious enough to not realise it."

Using the momentary distraction, Monty glanced sideways, catching her partner's face in the corner of an eye, rigid and impassive. She could however see fists working behind him, and with an effort she held her own expression blank: Jethro was rarely agitated, particularly over personal attacks. Whatever Charlie had said, it must have struck a nerve, and he wasn't finished yet, voice starting to take on the contemptuous snarl it had worn in _Nanking Queen's_ hold.

"Jethro Blacker, so trusting of those he believes to be on his side. Well now I hope you realise you were never more than a tool for Algernon, just like you were for the rest of Vauxhall. At least when I found one of your few uses I was nice enough to be up front about it; though I'll admit knocking Algy down a notch or two was at least as enjoyable as throwing _you_ out."

The hands had stopped now, their owner apparently back in control and, when he spoke, his voice was almost conversational.

"I imagine removing two obstacles from your own advancement didn't hurt either, and let you bring your lap dog there along for the ride. School ground insecurities never do quite go away do they?"

The smile froze, but only for an instant, before spreading itself across the Station Head's face once more. "Blacker, any public school would have thrown _you_ out, and whichever slum you actually attended _should_ have, but I'm glad to see you are still capable of grasping the simpler facts of life. You gone, Algernon exiled to Panama, a befittingly useless posting; that was indeed two more obstacles removed, ones which should never have been present in the first place… and far better off the SIS was for it. I had sort of expected bad rubbish would eventually fade from the collective conscious, and it almost did…" now, the snarl returned, and he rounded on Monty, "…except _you_ happened."

Carefully maintaining her air of polite interest, the girl raised a questioning eyebrow. That only seemed to infuriate him more, the man stalking over, glaring down at her insolently calm face.

"Bane of my existence _you_ are. Jethro Blacker's bloody mystery girl. Hundreds of women come and go, no-one bats and eyelid, then you show up and suddenly a name which should have fallen silent is back on every set of gossiping lips. I swear more of Vauxhall knows 'Jethro Blacker' now than when he actually worked in the place."

"Why do you care? I get the distinct impression you don't intend on returning."

The voice came from beside her, and flashing eyes snapped toward it. "Who said anything about not returning? Vauxhall still holds plenty of opportunity, and I've worked too bloody hard to give that up now, but there is nothing wrong with going back a richer man. Forgeries are easy to trace, but high bidders can pay in gold, and that is _much_ more flexible."

"So you're worried then someone might start digging around my name, and uncover a whiff of truth. Some smart people working for Lizzy."

The flashing gaze remained, but no words accompanied it this time and, a heartbeat later, towering fury seemed to ebb away. Stepping back, Charlie brushed down his suit, face returning to its previous air of contemptuous superiority.

"Truth, Blacker, is a fickle mistress, and one whom ultimately sells herself to the winners, among whom you are not. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other things to attend to."

"Nice to know I still warrant enough regard to be worth a visit."

"Let it never be said I am not a gentleman, and it only seemed polite to pop by in welcome, but worry not, there will be… further discussions."

With that he turned toward the door, signalling Martin to follow as he knocked once, and the Station H party filed out, room sealing again with a clack of timber.

For a moment silence reigned. Finally however, Monty turned to their remaining SIS companion, cocking an eyebrow. "Your name actually is 'Katherine' then."

The reply as slow coming and, when it did, the words were short their usual edge.

"Yes, it truly is. Believe it or not, by now I thought I owed you at least that much."

"Nice you care, and now would you also care to elaborate on the rest?"

"Not particularly."

"Allow me to rephrase that: _explain_." The girl nodded toward her partner's bound wrists, taking in his face in the process, and a little twist of worry reasserted itself in the base of her stomach. Lost in thought was not where she needed him at this moment. "It's hardly like we can do much about it anyway."

Another pause, Katherine also glancing toward the silent handler.

"Not much to say: I had been chasing the Italians' forging operation for months and, frankly, had stirred up enough trouble in the process that things were getting… difficult. I needed someone to draw heat, and Algy suggested this would be right up your boyfriend's alley."

"And so you killed Nick and Shamus, and planted the forgeries on them."

Now, some of the fire returned to the SIS spy's words. "Well, I couldn't exactly bloody wander over and ask now could I?"

Monty was about to retort when she felt something bump her leg and, following the touch, she found Jethro looking toward her. Flashing a quick, thin, smile, he twisted to Katherine also, eyebrows raised in question, public-facing grin starting to once more twitch his cheeks.

"And why us? Because Algy needed a mook who was not SIS?"

"Partly, but also because he, quote, 'wanted a scalpel'."

That got a wry chuckle. "Yes, I believe he once described you as something of a blunt instrument."

"Highly possible."

Heaving an internal sigh of relief, the girl looked from Katherine to her own partner: she could move on.

"While this promises to be an interesting conversation, now that I have both of you back it can wait for another time…" her gaze returned to the female spy opposite, hardening under quiet words, "…and I do intend there _will be_ another time. For now though, we should probably look toward making an exit."

"In case you'd not noticed, we're still bound, and since you did not want to make a start earlier, getting free could take a little while."

"We'll see. Skipper, a hand?"

With that, Monty stood, turning into the cabin. Holding arms rigid, she felt her handler bite onto the cuffs' loose tails, drawing them tighter to lock into place.

"I shink thass as good ash you'll get."

"Don't speak with your mouth full."

The pressure released.

"I said, I think that's about as good as you are going to get." Repeated Jethro.

Turning, she gave him a small smile, one returned as she backed away, up against the table. Placing a wrist either side of one corner, she slid rearward until plastic pulled taught between.

Hopefully this would work. A Generation One wouldn't have blinked breaking the restraint, and a regular Generation Two probably would not have been presented much challenge either, but for her part she was going to need all the help she could get…

…though, with Katherine watching, a little extra show was likely working in her favour anyway. Pushing wrists further apart, the girl raised herself up then dropped, hard, plastic biting into soft skin and she stifled a grunt as the table scraped back an inch.

Glancing around, she silently motioned the other two to brace her makeshift wedge.

Letting their weight settle into place, she readied again, before driving back and down onto the woodwork. Biting pain, burning resistance and, with an audible crack, the cuffs gave way to send her thumping onto the table top. Monty winced: hopefully no-one would want to investigate the racket.

Hands freed, it did not take long for the cabin to give up a shard of shattered glass, donor bottle abandoned along with collected grog and yellowing charts by a previous occupant.

Improvised blade or no however, it still proved capable of chewing through nylon restraints until, rubbing at red-ringed wrists, the girl settled once more at their small table, eyes pinning in place Katherine, now opposite the fratello.

"The question is: where to now? Much as I would like to keep the press for ourselves, it has taken the better part of a year to catch up with the Italians, and I don't much feel like repeating the experience. The fastest way to terminate their operation, and torpedo Charlie, would be to sink the lot."

"Which is of absolutely no use to anyone." Retorted Katherine.

"If you've some cunning scheme by which to retake the ship with three people, I would love to hear it."

Frankly, the Padania's income source sitting on the bottom of the ocean would suit her just fine. To the SIS however, she and Jethro were still in the game for themselves, and the trick would be spinning that so as to not dispute their understanding.

Under the table, Monty felt a hand settle on her knee, giving it a quick squeeze.

"She has a point, little as I like the idea, but we won't be kicking Charlie out with just the three of us, and I'd rather not let him run off with it."

_Of course, _she _could not play the revenge or patriotism cards either._

The other woman glared, previous conciliatory tone evaporating. "So you're going to side with your girlfriend again?"

"Give me a good reason why I should not, all things considered."

Imagining the expression accompanying those calm words did not require much effort, and they hung in the pause. When it came, Katherine's response was sour.

"Then we call in reinforcements."

Monty cocked an eyebrow. "From where? Even if we got a signal out, Algy is too far away to help, and I don't know about you, but I've little interest in waiting around to discover what Charlie has planned while he catches up."

"So you'd see the press, and its plates, at the bottom of the ocean."

It was, however, Jethro who replied. "As opposed to in Charlie's hands? So he can hawk it off to the highest bidder then waltz on home? Yes, I would, and don't think I'm unaware why _you_ want it kept afloat: US dollars are leverage, against the Americans, or anyone else, and whoever brought in that sort of prize would find themselves occupying a very enviable spot indeed."

"Too bloody right they would…" her eyebrow rose again: the British agent had not even attempted denying self-interest, but she was not finished either, "…probably enough to get Algy officially back into the halls of power, certainly enough to line _me_ up a field commander slot. Not to mention knocking Charlie down a peg or two." There was another pause, and in it the tone changed again. "Who knows, with friends like that we could maybe even start repairing the damage done to _you._"

Now Monty did glance toward her handler. There had to be some temptation there, but his face remained a mask. Out of sight though, she felt the hand on her leg tighten again. This time however, she let her own settle atop it, slender fingers intertwining to squeeze back and, finally, his features relaxed once more into their usual easy grin.

"Thanks for the offer, but…"

"…and Algy may not be as far off as you think." Cut in Katherine. Now, her gaze turned toward the girl. "I thought _you_ might like this one: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. I checked in with Algernon before leaving Sham Sui Po. All going to design, he should be en route to Hong Kong already, and just needs telling where we are."

That explained why she had been so eager to push on then. Had Algy arrived, with whomever he might be bringing in tow, to find no press or red-handed Charlie, then those throwing egg on faces would have required the entire carton.

Monty's eyes narrowed. "And just when were you intending to inform the rest of us about this?"

"When it seemed relevant, so about now."

"And also once it was too late to point out the risk you ran."

The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Jethro cut her off, voice thoughtful.

"That certainly changes the landscape somewhat…"

"Scuttling would still be the surer option."

Under the table, she felt her hand squeezed again.

_Trust me._

"…of course, you realise the clock will be ticking the moment any of us leave this cabin."

"I know, but we can barricade the door to buy a few more minutes…" now, for the first time since arriving, the hint of a smile broke Katherine's features, "…and on a ship this old, there are just _so many_ things could go wrong to occupy one's attention."

Now, it was her handler's turn to grin back, situation taking on a taste of school yard mischief.

"There is that. Alright, here's what we do."

* * *

Leaning farther out the open porthole, Monty peered down the ship's side. Below, white foam washed away from its hull, glistening phosphorescent in the vessel's wake, swirling aft under bright moonlight. If falling in now, she would far more likely sink than float.

At least the sharks would not be interested. Probably.

Attention returning skyward once more she looked across faded hull plating to lines of light, marking decks on the superstructure towering above. As hoped, this cabin had likely belonged to one of the ship's officers, and so lay well off the waterline. From here, it would not take much for her to jump up and grab hold of the weather deck scuppers, cut through solid metal.

Withdrawing once more, she nodded. Responding wordlessly, Jethro and Katherine lifted the table closer hull skinning, placing it gently a foot or so from the porthole's opening. Seemingly smashed glass had been a one off, their accommodations offering up little else of use to a conventional escape attempt. Bulkhead panelling however had provided a wood plank, which was now thrust a few inches outside, its other end resting on the table, her two companions positioning themselves to sit atop it.

Hopefully they would be enough of a counter balance.

Suddenly much more aware of the ship swaying beneath her, Monty squeezed out once more to crouch on the precarious ledge now afforded, fingers clutching brass framing.

Glancing back inside, she found her partner's face, receiving a small smile. Returning it with a somewhat drier expression she began to unfold, waiting until the last moment to relinquish her hand hold, palms moving instead to splay against salt coated paint.

The longer she stood here, the more chance she had of falling off.

Head tilting back, the girl found her target and, knees barely bending, leapt lightly upward.

For a heart stopping moment she hung weightless, but then stretching fingers jammed themselves through a scupper, clutching at flat deck beyond. Her other hand quickly joined it, wedging against the drain's backside and, using that to brace against, she swung legs under herself to press hard into the hull.

Walking feet to just below weathered boarding gave enough purchase to jerk upward again, one hand remaining in place while the other snatched gunwale rail, and there she waited, listening. No shouts from above. Presumably then she remained unobserved and, moving her other hand to join its twin, she peeked over dilapidated wood.

Nothing. The deck, or at least its port side, remained empty, Charlie's shorthanded commandos obviously having more pressing concerns than watching exterior walks.

Moving quickly she was soon aboard, lifting one of the faded life rings passed previously from its bracket and hoisting it over the side. Letting rope pay out for it to swing just below their cabin portal, she made fast to its cleat, before jerking hanging line twice. Then the young agent's attention returned to the deck proper, looking and listening hard.

Katherine was next to arrive, taking up position to cover the stern approach before Jethro hauled himself on deck, swapping positons to let Monty retrieve the life ring. Looping its rope neatly again, she replaced it on its bracket, arranging falling hemp to resemble how she had found it prior. Not that anyone was likely to notice, but better safe than sorry.

…_and the gaping porthole below would be far more incriminating evidence._

No time to dawdle. Katherine was already through the door they had originally entered by, ushering the Blackers behind. That however was the end of team play and, as her handler trotted down the passage in the elder woman's company, she turned toward the ship's stern.

That was not an arrangement she had been particularly enthused over but, unfortunately, there was no good argument for breaking tasks up any differently. On a vessel of this era, wheelhouse, chart, and radio rooms would all be clumped together for easy communication, and calling Algy was going to require at least two of three. The wheelhouse itself however was guaranteed to be populated, and she was ultimately the smaller and stealthier of those present. Thus, the more difficult task fell to her.

In hindsight, coming inside may have been a mistake. There were definitely stairs on the superstructure's rear, but any in here were going to be closer the ship's core. Continuing down the passage, she paused at its next junction, listening and, hearing nothing, peeked around.

Empty, clear across the beam. Of greater interest however were the set of steep ladders leading from this deck to the next and, pausing just below their upper hatch, she listened again. Now voices could be heard, muffled behind some barrier which, right now, was good enough and, finishing her climb, the girl stepped on to plush carpet.

At least it had probably once been plush, now frayed and faded with age to match wood panelling dividing numbered doors: cabins, marking this one of the passenger decks. Presuming Charlie's men had locked up the rest of the crew as well, this was probably somewhere she did not want to be.

A hinge's creak sent laughter wafting louder into the far corridor as boots began to tramp her direction. Time to move. Going up again would leave her exposed, and she daren't try passenger accommodation. Reaching a decision, Monty scampered aft, toward a portholed door at the passageway's end.

As it turned out, that was the wrong move.

"Well you two were…"

Around her, low mid-century furniture clustered into small groups, but those were not the subject of her attention. At the ship's bar, out of sight of the door, a sole commando was rising, kit stripped back to fatigues, surprise spreading across his face and, using that moment, Monty dashed forward, knuckles driving full force into his stomach. The blow keeled him over, letting her slam a trailing fist into his temple and the man started to drop, girl stooping to slow his descent, grimacing as she did: the crunch of bone had been bad enough, but putting one of Charlie's in a position to be missed this early could be catastrophic.

Moving quickly, she dragged him around the bar's rear. Presumably this was the passenger lounge which meant, with a little luck – she glanced backward to find a slender door beside arrayed bottles – the steward's pantry would be nearby.

Pushing it open with one foot the young spy dragged her burden through, folding him into a corner. Beyond that, there was little else to be done to conceal the evidence, and she quickly policed her victim. That turned out to be a somewhat fruitless exercise but, drawing an aged Browning from its holster, she checked it had been made ready before stuffing it into her own belt. Two spare thirteen round magazines also found their way into a pocket, and she slunk back to the door, listening carefully before peeking through its glass pane.

The lounge remained deserted, but from deeper in the ship came the thump of a fist against timber, followed by shouted Cantonese. Hopefully whoever else had been present would thus remain otherwise occupied and, slipping outside, she paused, eyes falling on what Charlie's man had been studying: three wallets, three passports, and a trio of phones. The rest of their kit had seemingly gone elsewhere and, only hesitating a moment, she withdrew the newly acquired Hi-Power again to tighten her belt, before tucking in her oversize shirt. Unbuttoning that a notch further, the collection was swept inside.

Taking that was a risk but, considering what was on her phone, it was probably worth her while… and removing only one item would likely ring more alarm bells than leaving nothing at all.

_Besides, good quality aliases did not come cheap._

Now she really did need to move and, returning to her original plan, Monty headed sternward, pistol in hand.

The wide aft veranda remained clear, steel plate giving way to more passenger friendly timber decks, and she quickly climbed curved stairs, away from the gaze of lounge windows. Here, the superstructure cut back, leaving a wide open space, canvas-covered whaler boats resting in cradles down either flank. Between them the lounge skylight glowed, offering a clear view inside and, creeping forward, Monty glimpsed two more commandos return through its starboard door. Between them hung one of _Nanking Queen's_ original crew, and she paused, listening. If she had blown their escape already, she was about to find out.

The two stopped, and the girl ducked down further, ensuring she remained out of sight.

"_Oi, I thought we told Hamish to wait?"_

There was another pause.

"_Bet you he's taken the girl's passport to the john, seedy prick."_

"_If that's the game, then I call next. Until the boss says otherwise that's the best we're going to get for entertainment…" _there was the thump of a body falling, _"…and seeing what we can wring from these idiots."_

Seemingly she was okay then, at least for now.

Continuing forward, Monty passed the ship's funnel, climbing another steep step ladder from the boat deck as a scream of pain rose from inside. Ignoring it, she scanned what lay ahead carefully: if she were going to encounter trouble, this was its most likely source.

Wood decking was broader here, light spilling from an open wheelhouse door, casting shadows across the bridge wing. It was definitely inhabited then, dull glows issuing from portholes set into steel, stretching back toward her. Beside, gaping vents faced the wind, ramming it toward the vessel's lower reaches, and into the shadow of those Monty scampered, pulling up at another weathertight door. Rushing air forbad listening at rotten seals but, raising herself up, the girl peeked instead through circular glass.

The area beyond remained empty, superstructure narrowing here compared to lower levels and, slipping inside, she assessed her surroundings. Unlike those paying passage, _Nanking Queen's_ designers had afforded her crew neither luxuries of space nor privacy, bulkhead panelling broken only by paired wood doors fore and aft.

Those also offered no clue as to what was concealed behind. At a guess though, little of interest would lie toward the stern and, instead, she crouched down at the nearest forward door. A small grate at its base gave her something to listen at and, hearing nothing, the girl eased her way inside.

The room beyond was dimly lit, partly by another round opening in what she could only presume was access to the wheelhouse proper, remainder by a dull desk lamp, casting deep shadows from boxy metal enclosures stacked against the forward bulkhead. Scampering to those, out of easy sight, Monty settled before ancient wireless sets, patchy paint nearby suggesting more modern equipment having been torn out. Patently _Nanking Queen_ had been destined for the breakers when the Padania found her. At least now she could expect a more dignified burial.

Either way, a gentle hand would probably be the best policy and, trying not to disturb layered dust, she reached first for the VHF, flicking it on.

Not even a crackle. On to plan B.

Powering the bulky MF set took more effort but, locating its isolator, she was eventually greeted by a deep hum of electronics slowly coming to life, hopefully not so loud as for anyone to hear.

Still, nothing had gone pop either.

Abandoning the warming radio, she slunk once more into the passage to crouch beside the second door, listening again. There _were_ voices from this one, but faint and, cracking it slightly, she peered through. Before her lay a large table, yellowed paper hanging over raised edges, more rolled up and placed into individual slots beneath: chart room. This was where she needed to be but, beyond it, the wheelhouse access swung open. From here, she could see clear through to where Martin stood, back to her, apparently talking to someone out of sight.

No shout of discovery however came and, taking advantage of his current orientation, she slipped inside, keeping low to scoot around the table's far side. Reaching its end, she peeked past once more. Seemingly some of the crew had decided to co-operate with new management, one now at the ship's wheel and on the receiving end of Martin's conversation. He also was looking away and, acting quickly, Monty popped up to glance across the table top. Finding the most likely looking chart she snatched it back into her hiding place, protractor and parallel rule following behind.

Locating their most recently marked position, the girl memorised co-ordinates scrawled beside, before laying the protractor over _Nanking Queen's_ projected course. It looked like she had been correct: too easterly for the mainland, more toward Indonesia's farther island groups.

From the bridge however, conversation ceased, and the young agent froze as shoes began to tap her direction across wooden decking. Placing chart and protractor aside, she picked up her pistol, thumb hovering over its safety…

The shoes continued on, out to the bridge wing and, giving a silent sigh of relief, she peeked around the table's edge again.

Martin was gone, leaving just the helmsman, glow of a fresh cigarette visible at his mouth. Staring blankly forward he seemed little interested in anything else, and she quickly arranged document and instruments as she had found them, before slipping back out the door, one careful eye on the starboard entry as she returned to the radio room.

Placing her pistol down once more, Monty settled before the heavy set, rotating its frequency dial to the secondary option Katherine had specified and, chasing a spider out of one ear cup, she pulled on headphones before drawing its Morse key toward herself. This was probably not how Algy had stipulated any message to arrive, but on equipment this old she was not going to get another option, in which case a little warning was probably in order. Grasping the key's knob, she began to stroke away.

_\- R-H-U-B-A-R-B R-H-U-B-A-R-B L-A-C-Y D-E G-I-N-G-E-R G-I-N-G-E-R K-N -_

She paused, awaiting a response.

Nothing. Well it would probably take a moment for whomever was on the receiving end to work out what had just occurred. Just in case though, she reached forward to crank the gain wide open and, silently reading off words in her head, tried once more, dropping the preceding gibberish.

_Calling Lacy, this is Ginger, back-to-you only._

Another pause but, this time, it was broken by the ultra-precise beat of a computer-generated signal.

_Ginger, this is Lacy. Authenticate teacup Old Chap. Go ahead only Ginger._

_Lacy, this is Ginger. Auth Paddington windmill doctor one one, day code W-W-R-A…_

She had forgotten how terribly slow this could be. Whoever complied such a long countersign needed talking to and, keeping a wary eye on the wheelhouse door she continued straight on, bashing out _Nanking Queen's_ name, last marked position, and current course before turning back over to the SIS operator.

_\- G-I-N-G-E-R D-E L-A-C-Y C-F-M… -_

Only the first few letters had come through however when there was a thud from outside. Hidden until now, one of the commandos was striding forward on heavy boots, listening to the squawk of his own handheld set. Had they found their dead companion? If so, it was time to move and, holding her key down to interrupt the incoming message, Monty bashed out two more letters.

_Closing station._

Not a moment too soon either as, turning, the man suddenly came face to face with her through radio room glass.

"Hey!"

Grabbing her pistol she swept off its safety, putting two shots through thin door panelling. She had no idea if they hit, probably not, and tearing off headphones with one hand she spun Katherine's frequency from the dial, before dashing for the passage. Seemingly she had indeed missed, wood shattering as automatic fire tore through it, and she tumbled from the deckhouse onto teak boards beyond.

It was bare respite however. On the bridge wing Martin was already turning, MP5 rising in the wheelhouse's glow, and two more rounds flew his direction, forcing him to duck. No way was she going to make it back to the boat deck, too open, too exposed. She needed a different plan, and instead she ran for the nearest ventilator scoop as the door behind her flew open. Bullets sparking off steel, she leapt for its gaping maw, dropping away and out of sight.

* * *

Watching his girl disappear from view, Jethro turned back to his own task, Katherine leading as they headed into _Nanking Queen's_ interior. Order of business: get eyes on Charlie, figure out what he was currently up to, and then find something suitably catastrophic to occupy his attention.

Of course, all good plans required some preparation and, pausing by one door, he listened carefully. So far this deck, seemingly concerned with the ship's running, remained deserted and, hearing nothing, the spy pushed through. No luck, room swinging open to reveal what appeared to be a small laundry. Two doors later however he struck gold, just in time too as his current companion's voice wafted from outside, low but patently annoyed.

"Are you quite done?"

"Patience is a virtue."

Digging through the cramped workshop eventually turned out an oil can and, pumping twice to ensure it would actually operate, he stepped back into the passage, holding it aloft.

"Alright, good to go."

Receiving rolled eyes in return he let Katherine lead again, descending toward lower reaches. In finding Charlie, the press's hold would probably be as good of a place to start as any and, pausing at its entry, Jethro motioned the British woman aside. The hinges which had caused such a racket on their previous visit were treated to a goodly dose of oil and, giving it a moment to wick in, he turned the steel wheel to retract heavy bolts.

Moving forward again, Katherine pushed softly, faintest squeak just audible before being silenced. Bar sounds of a ship underway it really was silence too, the press having fallen quiet, probably shut down to avoid damage whilst in transit.

The tween deck beyond remained clear, and the woman slipped through.

Sometime since their fight, bodies had been cleared away. That was all however, remaining detritus untouched, corroding steel scattered with ink rollers and spent casings. Beyond spindly handrails though, hold lights still burned and, scuttling forward, the handler lay flat, leaving his SIS companion to keep him covered. Sliding the last few feet on his belly, he looked down between ladder rungs, careful to remain in shadow. It was not a great view, but was still better than exposing himself at the edge, and through its narrow frame he could see a group of crewmen tending to the central machine, greasing and oiling under the watchful eye of two commandos. What there was not, however, was any sign of Charlie and, sliding back again, he rolled up on his haunches. Glancing toward Katherine, he gave a quick shake of the head.

_No joy._

Shrugging, the woman jerked hers toward their entry but, answering in the negative, he pointed toward doors leading forward. So long as they were here, they may as well check this end of the ship.

The second hold however proved deserted, floor devoid of encumbrance bar a sticky black sheen, air thick with the stench of rotten eggs and tar, presumably the victim of leaking bunkerage. Skirting around its edge, the two spies made their way quickly back through watertight bulkheads toward their entry point. Stooping on his way however, Jethro picked up one of the discarded rifles and, as they squeezed into the passage beyond, he jammed it through the hold-side locking mechanism before pulling the door to.

With that, he pointed away toward the transverse access's far end. "Next stop should probably be the engine room."

"Or the bridge."

"Anyone there is Monty's problem for now. We'd be better working our way up from the bottom, and the engine room is Charlie's next biggest potential problem."

Shrugging by way of reply, Katherine set off again, moving quickly in a crouched half run. Arriving at the next junction she listened briefly before continuing on her way. It was a sensible precaution but, sparse population or no, luck could not hold out forever and, peeking around the next bend, she came to a sudden halt.

"Watch it!"

Rather than retreat however she charged forward, and Jethro was just in time to see her cannon into two commandos halfway along the adjoining branch. Fortunately they seemed just as surprised, and her impact knocked one sprawling.

But then the other was on her, kicking hard to lift the spy clear of his squadmate, tumbling her aside and, looking for something he could use, the SWA man grasped for a hanging fire extinguisher.

Katherine however was already up, one hand reaching back to withdraw the chopstick from her hair, other parrying a jab to slide along the extended arm. Ponytail unravelling she ducked in under her assailant's next blow, bringing her back to him and, getting in close, she rammed the stick's pointed end hard up under his chin with both hands.

There was a sickening noise as it pierced soft tissue and, letting go, she smacked it again, driving wood home through tongue and roof of mouth.

That was not the only sound however, the prone commando's radio already up.

"They're out! They're fucking…"

The rest was cut off as Jethro's improvised club sent the handheld clattering away. Too late though, the message was gone, and the extinguisher clanged off metal decking as his target dodged, rolling upright.

That was as far as he got however, red splashing across his chest as two pistol shots cut through flesh and bone, echoing along steel walls.

Dropping her current burden, Katherine safed his Browning before wedging it in her belt to massage at one hand, and the SWA man's brows knotted. "You okay?"

"Think I may have broken something with that chopstick trick." Grimacing, she gestured to the downed commando. "You police that one, I'll finish cleaning this other out."

Crouching beside his designated corpse, Jethro quickly unshipped its MP5, spare magazines being jammed into pockets. Detaching the pistol in its holster however, he gave it a quick once over, frowning.

"You know, I don't think this mob are actually ours."

There was a pause, and the following words were dry. "As in friends of yours? Or as in mine?"

"As in British intelligence or special forces. Sterilisation aside, this is all close on army service gear, but they just don't seem sharp enough."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Oh, they're certainly not amateurs, but do _you_ think you could have taken two, say, SAS like that?"

"Maybe, but probably not. What do you think? Third party hires by Charlie?"

"That was the insinuation. Might be worth trying to find out whom and how."

"How about we work on staying alive until Algy gets here first?"

Standing again, the ex-SIS agent shouldered his newly acquired weapon. There were voices coming from elsewhere in the ship now, shouts and running feet, faint, sporadic gunfire.

_Mustn't fret, Monty could look after herself._

"Come on, we'd best get moving. Here is no place to get caught again."

* * *

Bracing booted feet either side of a corroded vent cover, Monty blew on throbbing hands, red and raw from arresting her plummet. That she did not feel like doing again, though a little friction burn probably beat getting shot.

_Definitely beat getting shot._

Fortunately her arrival's racket had been lost in the mechanical cacophony emerging from below, and she peered through circular vanes onto the ship's single, massive, engine. While surrounding catwalks showed no sign of life, that was only more worrying on a vessel decrepit as _Nanking Queen_: all it meant was that she could not see whomever had been given the unenviable task of keeping things running.

No fire had followed her flight from the bridge deck however, suggesting Charlie's men had at least some inkling of where the duct went… again less blessing than curse as it also meant they would be aware of her destination. No time to lose then and, grasping the vent firmly, she began to work it from rusted lugs.

Eventually, with an audible crack, it came free, weight dragging her suddenly down. Dropping with it Monty twisted, rolling awkwardly as she hit grating below to prevent steel meeting steel. It was certainly not her most graceful arrival ever but, leaving the cover as it lay, the girl picked up her Browning from where it had escaped her grasp.

On to part two of why she had split off on her own: time to set about sending the Padania's forging operation to the bottom.

Giving her weapon a once over, she crept to the end of the engine's block, peering around its thundering bulk. Now she could see exactly where the room's inhabitants were, clustered by a control panel, two original crew in overalls, and a single commando. Her eyes narrowed: only a single guard? It seemed a little much that so many of the ship's personnel would willingly help. So, where was…

Something prodded her in the back of the head.

Not pausing, she lashed out blindly, leg catching the man behind and sending him clattering to the deck, MP5 spraying fire skyward. Ignoring the toppling soldier, Monty dropped sideways, bringing her own pistol to bear on remaining opponents. The Station H man went down, another round catching one crewman in the leg, his mate shoving him clear only to receive two shots himself.

The pistol's slide locked back, but now she had bigger problems, a heavy boot smashing her against juddering rail, and she looked up to find a black barrel swinging her direction once more. Grasping metal above she hurled herself forward, rolling in under its fire which scythed across her head. No chance to line up a proper strike, and instead she lowered a shoulder, barrelling into her assailant. It was a clumsy movement, but cyborg power and mass were enough to send him staggering backward.

The submachine gun went dry.

Swiping its empty magazine away, her opponent fumbled for a spare. Seizing the opportunity, Monty charged forward, getting in close, fist driving upward to crush his exposed windpipe, feeling it give under the weight of her blow.

He did not last much longer after that, falling to gag and writhe. Eventually however he stilled and, replenishing her Browning from his ammunition supply, the young agent unshipped the now abandoned MP5, finishing what its previous owner had started. Pity she hadn't space for its spare magazines as well, but thirty rounds were better than nothing. A steep ladder at the engine's aft let her slide down beside its spinning propeller shaft, and she trotted around to stand before the same plethora of gauges and valves as the now dead commando and mechanic had. Of the party's third member there was no sign, a trail of blood leading away to one watertight door and, ignoring it, Monty returned to the task at hand. Frankly, she had absolutely no idea what she was looking at.

_In which instance she might as well to take a leaf from the Generation One playbook, and simply make the biggest mess possible._

MP5 being shoved farther behind one shoulder, the girl reached forward, beginning to crank open every valve visible, before moving on to those feeding the engine proper. Smaller pipes she did not bother with, no time and, task complete, she grabbed a heavy fire axe from its mounting.

Positioning herself over the largest line she could find, the cyborg took careful aim at its far side, before bringing the blade down with a resounding clang, and again. On the third blow a thin trickle began to form and she continued, opening the fracture until trickle became gushing torrent, steaming brine pouring across the engine room floor. Finding another likely target, she raised the axe again.

Before she could swing however, the thud of a watertight door meeting its bulkhead stopped her.

"What the fuck are you doing!"

A female voice. Looking up, she found Katherine charging into the room, Jethro behind, the latter leaving its entry swinging open.

Now the SIS agent was upon her, face contorted in stunned fury, question repeating. "What the fuck are you doing?"

The reply was hard. "Scuttling the ship."

"Like hell you are."

The woman's arm swung back but, before Monty could take a defensive stance, fingers were closing around the raised wrist, holding it fast, and she spun to where Jethro now stood, already talking.

"We agreed! We were signalling Algy then waiting for the cavalry to arrive. If she sinks the _Nanking_ we lose their entire forging operation."

"We've already lost the forging operation." Jethro's reply was calm. "Even if Monty got through, there is no way we could hold out until Algy gets here now, head start or no. The best we can do is abandon ship and commit the rest to Davy Jones." He looked toward his partner. "_Did_ you get through?"

"Yes, but I was interrupted before receiving confirmation out of Algy's contact."

"There, we don't even know help is coming and, personally, I'm not so keen on waiting around to find out." The words received no reply, and he continued. "We sink the ship, keep it out of Charlie's hands, and if we can we'll try grab him on the way through to face M. Understand?"

That did get a response, a silent nod and, pausing a moment longer, her partner released their companion's restrained arm. Kneeling then, he laid fingers instead on the pipe she had been about to attack.

"Not this one, its cold, so likely an inlet. You want the engine running for as long as possible to keep pumping water…" he looked around, pointing to similarly sized lines bolted against the hull, "…those, they probably lead off to ballast tanks. Open them up and I'll see what else is worth breaking."

Setting to work, Monty began to swing again as her handler moved to the control panel. Retrieving a heavy sledgehammer from the same case as had supplied her axe, he began to smash valves off the smaller lines, contents pouring forth and adding to the swirling mess already lapping their ankles.

With each blow however, the axe was becoming blunter, her work harder and, opening up the next pipe the girl was forced to pause, breathing heavily. As she did however, a hand landed on her shoulder, Katherine's voice speaking clearly from above her head.

"Here, I'll take that."

Stepping forward, the woman peeled the axe from her grasp, before raising it high to be brought crashing down on their next target and, internally, Monty allowed herself a small sigh of relief. At least for now, they all seemed back on the same page.

Her companion had only managed to sever two more lines however when a movement caught Monty's eye.

"Careful!"

Ignoring the MP5 at her back, she drew her pistol to send two shots flying toward the trio of commandos arriving at the forward entry. Rather that was the intention, still limp arms refusing to co-operate and the rounds ricocheted off heavy steel. It was enough to get Jethro and Katherine's attention however, axe falling with a splash as the latter brought her own submachinegun to bear.

Hammer still in one hand, Jethro took advantage of her protection, backing away from the console, keeping his weapon trained toward their assailants with the other. "I would say that's our cue to leave. Keep me covered, I'm going to ensure that door's out of commission."

Receiving a pair of affirmatives, the handler waded aft as gunfire roared again behind him, fuel oil swirling through water already sloshing about sopping knees.

Stairs at the engine room's end presented another watertight door and, opening it wide, he smashed the hammer into exposed hinges, contorting them so as to never move again. Repeating that process on the upper mounting, he stepped through, turning back to the fight.

Not that there seemed much left to do. A corpse lay in the far doorway, its companions having apparently scarpered. That he could not afford, not yet, not here.

"Time to leave!"

Monty and Katherine did not need telling twice, and they were quickly wading toward him, elder woman covering her young companion. Firing another burst as she backed up the stairs to join them she stepped through the exit, talking as she did.

"Got one, winged at least one more, and the last seems to have run."

"Then let's just hope he takes a while getting back." Looking between them, he nodded into the flooding engine room. "We need a distraction until this can get properly out of control. Ideas?"

It was Monty who replied. "Charlie's got the Italians' workers locked up on the passenger deck. Releasing them should give Station H something to contemplate."

"Except they'd just as likely turn on _us_." Put in their SIS companion. "Taking the bridge though would force their hand."

Much to Jethro's own surprise, his partner nodded. "There were not many present up there, the three of us could probably manage something."

"Alright, bridge it is, but on the way through, punch a hole in this ship any place you can."

Pausing only to jam open doors to the rear hold, the little group quickly found themselves once more below the weather deck. Pausing at the climb's top however, Monty peered through the hatch opening, beckoning them to join her.

Back to where they began.

The passage ahead lay deserted, guard on their former prison removed. Leaving his partner to keep watch, the handler and their companion moved quickly, locking open cabins and smashing portholes.

Positioning herself to cover the elder pair as they started down the ship's opposite flank, Monty dug in her shirt, retrieving collected belongings and, waiting for them to draw level with her once more, she held out the assortment.

"Here, before I lose them."

Accepting possessions from the little pile, Jethro looked quickly through his own effects before pocketing them.

"Thanks luv."

Katherine however seemed less enthused. "Where did you find these?"

"Station H had them in the passengers' lounge, same deck where the Italians' people are being held."

"So we definitely avoid staying there too long."

Her partner's voice was dry. Their companion, though, still had questions.

"You didn't find my watch by chance did you?"

The girl shook her head, to be answered by a sigh. "Q branch is going to kill me. Again."

"You can worry about the boffins later." Sledgehammer lowering, Jethro nodded to his girl, unshipping his MP5 as he did so. "Led on MacDuff."

Hefting her own submachinegun, she however turned attention to their party's third member, locking eyes before jerking her head toward the stern.

"Go on. The first level should be fine, but wait before the second, it's all windows right around the back of the lounge."

* * *

Rather more protected from the wrath of oncoming seas, the superstructure's rear allowed easy access directly onto the main deck though heavy doors. To the east, dawn was just beginning to break, washing away covering darkness and, stepping out behind Katherine, Monty scanned her weapon across towering steel and open railings under soft, grey light.

Finding both deserted, she waited for her partner to wedge open the far exit also and, as he took up a rear guard position, their SIS addition moved again, scrambling quickly up another steep ladder while the cyborg covered her from below.

On the next climb however, she paused, peeking over its last step, before motioning the girl to join her.

"How is it?"

"Clear," Katherine's voice was a whisper, "on the outside at least." Now however, she pointed to paired stairways leading to the boat deck. "I say we handle one each. Check the lounge is empty, I'll take the far side."

Nodding, Monty squeezed past, moving swiftly to the door and peering through its porthole. Beyond, the bar area lay deserted, previous patrons now otherwise occupied, and she gestured the other woman forward.

Jethro was close behind. Leaving him to watch so many approaches was not an ideal situation but, waiting for both to take position, she began to climb, mirror of Katherine on the starboard stair. Pausing just below the boat deck, she looked across, being motioned to stay put.

Then, that other peaked cautiously over.

For a moment peace reigned, but it was only a moment.

Suddenly, stillness was shattered by automatic gunfire, forcing the SIS agent down as rounds slammed into decking above, showering her in sparks and splinters.

It snapped off again, and Monty found herself once more in the other woman's gaze.

"Cover me!"

Standing in response, the cyborg got her first glimpse at what they faced. Under the bridge, Charlie's men had barricaded themselves on the cabin's flanking decks, two or three commandos each behind heavy tables and chairs, blocking entry to what was, presumably, the dining room and owner's suite between. Picking the farther group, Monty shouldered her MP5, jamming its trigger down to pepper them with submachinegun fire, drawing attention her way.

Then Katherine was up, charging ahead to drop behind the lounge skylight as their reply spanged off wood and guardrails.

Dropping back into cover the girl discarded her now empty weapon, drawing the Browning instead before popping up to deliver two more shots.

They were going to be hard pressed moving forward from here. That was okay though, they didn't need to actually take the bridge, just keep the Station H contingent's attention on them long enough for flooding below to take hold.

Eyes flicked to the gun now laying beneath her.

If anything, ammunition was going to be their biggest concern… as would knowing exactly where the rest of the competition was. Five she had seen on the barricades, and there should definitely be more than that still loose.

That thought had barely finished when windows below shattered, sending her partner ducking for cover as Charlie's second team made itself known.

_Jethro or Katherine…_

Popping up to deliver two more rounds across the boat deck, Monty dropped, vaulting over stairway bannisters, catching a glimpse inside as she fell. More of the Station H contingent had come through the accommodation deck in a flanking manoeuvre, taking up position inside as they encountered their targets.

Jethro had already found cover at the far door, shooting back and, hitting wood planking, Monty rolled her plummet into forward momentum, popping up from a new location to fire through now empty window frames.

Two shots caught one commando as he entered from the far passage, but then she was forced to duck away. Far from a small surprise force, it looked like this assault was being undertaken by a full strength squad…

…and even then their number appeared light. Glancing around, her eyes ran over steep ladders leading up from below. So where were the rest?

The same thought had seemingly occurred to her handler and, loosing another quick burst through the doorway, he glanced back her direction, pointing upward.

"Go!"

With that they were both standing, pouring rounds into the lounge, sending those inside diving aside, before dashing for respective staircases.

"Katherine! Cover!"

The spy must have heard as she was fast to oblige and, cresting the flight, Monty joined in, dashing forward to drop also behind the skylight. Ejecting the spent magazine from her Browning, the cyborg dug out a fresh replacement, glancing across to where her handler was hunkered behind one of the ship's boats, reloading his own weapon. This was a bad position to be in.

Katherine was back down again now, apparently in no need of an explanation, and the cyborg leant around the skylight, squeezing off another pair of rounds before ducking back to catch the woman's address.

"I'll keep this deck busy, you two watch the stairs."

Words had barely left her mouth however when more reports sounded from the lounge, immediately joined by shouts and breaking glass. Not just shouts in English either, but Cantonese also.

An attempt to peek through skylight glass however had Monty immediately back behind its housing as lead sparked from iron framing. So much for that plan, and running boots returned her attention to the stairs, just as a greasepaint smeared face emerged above it. Now she did not miss, shots slamming into the new arrival's chest, sending him tumbling back. Not far though as the man behind caught the falling corpse, hoisting it up as a shield to block her fire as he ran past. One more followed in his wake, apparently more interested in covering the stair than the cyborg crouched before it as the first Molotov cocktail sailed up behind, shattering to sheet the deck in flame, forcing her to scramble out of its path, falling into Katherine on the way.

That was quickly followed by a head, poking up from the deck below. This one she recognised, escaped engine room mechanic wielding another bottle in one hand, its wick already alight. Monty fired again, two rounds slamming into him and sending him toppling backward, panicked shouts erupting from below as flames engulfed wooden stairs.

At least they wouldn't be coming up there anymore, and she turned to the other access as Jethro opened up on the first figure appearing there. He wasn't the only one engaged however, and more reports sounded from forward. Peeking over cover again she was just in time to see glass shatter outward above starboard barricades, screams starting as those below were wreathed in blazing liquid. Their pain was short lived however, former crewmen immediately setting about the burning commandos with pry bars and whatever other weapon lay to hand.

"Monty!"

Her head snapped back to where her partner was still hunkered, MP5's magazine out as another former Padania worker charged from the stair, and her pistol came around as he hurled his own cocktail toward the already flaming cabin ahead. Katherine was faster however, quick burst dropping the shouting man, but more were swarming from below, improvised weaponry replacing homemade firebombs, and the cyborg opened up as another turned her direction.

Most however seemed to not even see her, intent on the bridge or bearing down on already embattled Station H troops. As the last ran past, she caught her partner's eye again.

"I think that's our cue to leave."

"I think so." He slapped the hull of the boat above, long splinters falling away from shattered clinker boards. "This has had it, we'll need one from forward."

Nodding, she turned back to Katherine, now crouched up, submachinegun still trained ahead.

"Yeah, I heard. Cover me."

With that the woman was running, and Monty brought her Browning to bear. Not that it was needed, port side barricade abandoned as its defenders fell back to address the threat to their rear, and the SIS agent took up position behind. Jethro was next, heading for the opposite railing and boat still lashed in place before the blockage's burning twin. Now it was her turn and, standing, the girl caught a glimpse down. Seemingly the dropped Molotov had spread further, turning lounge furnishings to a raging inferno, interceding glass already beginning to crack.

Checking stairs one last time she ran forward, scanning across the bridge deck above as she crouched beside their chosen whaler's aft davit.

Her partner had already stripped its cover back, now fumbling with securing lines. Finally however he was able to push it out over the side, hanging above water far below.

"Alright luv, time to leave." Turning then, he shouted across at their companion. "Katherine! Let's go!"

Abandoning her position, the woman ran back toward them, leaping into the boat. Instead of taking a seat however, she dove for the forward locker.

"Not yet!"

"What do you mean_ 'not yet'_?" Jethro's words were a growl.

"I'm going after Charlie."

"And just how do you plan to do that?"

"With any luck the Chinese will be attacking from the other side, and he won't expect us down this flank." Emerging from the boat, Katherine held up its small fire extinguisher, apparently catching the fratello's expressions in the process. "Look, if you don't want the SIS to come looking a chat I will need him to help explain events."

Not waiting for a response she charged back toward the flaming barricade, and Monty caught her partner's eye as he spoke.

"Go with her, I'll watch the boat."

"But."

"She has a point. Go. I doubt anyone will be bothering me here."

By the time she reached the barricade it had already been doused and, kicking still smouldering wood aside the older woman continued forward along the superstructure's flank, keeping low, beneath window level. She had barely reached halfway however when the door at the end was flung open.

Monty's first shot caught the commando there in the shoulder, extinguisher tumbling from his grasp, spinning him around to let the second slam through the back of his head and he dropped, revealing a suddenly blood spattered Charlie behind. Leaping for the door he attempted to slam it shut, but Katherine was too fast, crashing through and tackling him to the ground.

He was not the only one present however, and Martin's boot caught her in the side to the crunch of breaking ribs, throwing her off his boss who, rolling upright, drew his own pistol. Still on the ground, she lashed out, kicking it away, but that left her open for the next strike, and she staggered from view as Monty began her own charge. That the junior operative had apparently not foreseen and, turning to face the new threat, he missed the other woman's return, her fist driving hard into exposed kidneys.

Below them, Charlie was just beginning to stand again, but then the cyborg was there, one foot tangling ankles to send him crashing back to the carpet. Katherine still engaged, she followed him down, getting a firm grasp around one wrist and twisting back.

It was only then she noticed the adjoining compartment, and the group of mercenaries still there.

Seemingly they had only just noticed her also, a cry resounding as, Browning levelling, Monty opened up, catching the one who had shouted in the side. That however most certainly got the others' attention.

"Look out!"

Her companion was already moving, swinging her opponent into the line of fire and shoving him forward, checking it long enough to take over charge of Charlie. Grasping his arm hard she hauled him out the door, pushing him sternward.

Martin was recovered now, getting clear, and another shot smashed through a leg sending him stumbling. She needed to buy more time and, expending the rest of her magazine into the room beyond, the girl dropped back out of sight as return fire chewed through wood above her head.

_That would have to suffice._

Ramming home her final spare she was up and running too, sprinting aft along slanting decks. Ahead, Jethro was already in the boat, helping Katherine hoist their prisoner over the gunwale before that latter followed suit and, racing toward them, she waved frantically.

"Get moving!"

Her partner got the message and, yelling something at the SIS woman with him, the boat began to slip from sight.

She could hear boots behind now, shouted commands. Not slowing she fired blindly backward, pistol emptying as she exploded onto the boat deck proper, incoming rounds shattering timber at her heels. Weaving sideways as more zinged past she dropped, sliding the last few feet on her side to tumble over the precipice as bullet impacts kicked up splinters around her.

For a moment there was silence, falling through space, then a heavy thud as she landed in the bottom of the boat, setting it rocking. Rolling to heave a dazed Charlie unceremoniously aside, she grabbed her partner's discarded MP5, training it upward and opening fire as two figures appeared at the balustrade, sending them ducking away.

The deck below however was now awash with flame, boiling in angry sheets across its ceiling, lapping around charring edges, chewing through planking and beams alike. Another burst bought a few more seconds, but she watched in horror as davits started to droop, their fixings beginning to collapse.

Jethro too had seen it.

"Let go!"

With that he released his grasp on the rope, Katherine following suit, their whaler plummeting the last ten feet to land with a slap on pitching seas. It was not a moment too soon either, heavy curved steel tumbling past, ropes running out through their blocks to trail behind into the depths below.

"Katherine, a hand here?"

Finding oars, her handler settled one into its rowlock, SIS woman taking up position with its twin and they heaved together, hauling away from the doomed ship, putting as much distance between it and themselves as they could.

Monty however had other concerns and, finding the painter, she rolled Charlie over, beginning to bind hands and feet, leaving his wrists attached to the bow. As she drew rope tight however, growled words issued up from below her pinning knee.

"You really think this will help you? Or your boyfriend? All you've achieved here is to make things worse."

"Careful," the girl's voice was cold, "or it'll be the anchor you're attached to rather than the boat."

Propping him against the gunwale, she looked sternward. _Nanking Queen_ was a good half mile away already, listing decks entirely awash in burning orange, fire engulfing railings and lapping around towering masts. As she watched, the forward crane gave way, toppling over to smash through rotten hold covers beneath. For a moment that seemed like the end of it, but then volatile vapour caught, ship heaving mightily as flames erupted from the hole, roaring back through her interior, and she heaved again as they found the fume-filled engine room, blasting out ventilators and whatever other path they could find.

From there it was only a matter of time, cold ocean thundering into newfound ruptures in ravaged plating, raging through passageways and open bulkhead doors, filling cabins and holds, sweeping away living and dead alike. Slowly, _Nanking Queen_ sunk lower, listing further as she succumbed to the sea, drowning everything within until, finally, rolling on her side she slid beneath the waves, bows rising up in final farewell before they too disappeared, burning slick of her funeral pyre the only beacon to mark her passing.

From stilled oars, Katherine finally broke the silence, voice weary. "Well, there goes that chance of getting back in Vauxhall's good books."

Turning to straddle the bench, Jethro gave a similarly dry chuckle. "Then I guess that makes us even for buggering up each other's work."

"What do you mean 'buggering up each other's work'?"

"Monaco would be a good start."

"You were successful weren't you?"

"Onlyjust and, for the record, you can tell Algy next you see him that, should he want help in the future I would prefer he just ask."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that."

The words were dry, but the handler was still talking. "Besides, you've not so much to complain about…" eyes landed on the recumbent Charlie, "…you still have _that_. So long as you can find some evidence which will actually stick to snake oil it should buy plenty of bargaining power."

"There is that," now, the SIS woman pulled a rueful face, "I just don't like settling for runner up prizes. Perhaps next time, maybe."

"As if there will actually be a _next time_."

The words were virulent, and three heads turned to Charlie as he continued. "If you think bringing me in like this will be enough to reinstate you at the Circus, Blacker, or dig out your mate Algy, then you are very much mistaken. He's been too long in the sticks, and I hold the keys to that castle now, _me_, not him. A little spin, a few favours called in, and this will blow over... Hell, your involvement will probably even work to my advantage, seeing as you've apparently managed to bollocks up this one as well. Just proof I was right all along to have you _thrown out_."

"Depends on how you define 'bolloxed up'."

"Remind me what Katherine was here to do again? For _my _Station? And what is now at the bottom of the sea? Sounds like a proper screw up to _me_. If you had any chance of returning before, it's damn well ended_ now_."

When they came however, Jethro's words were calm.

"You seem to be under the impression that I actually _want_ some variety of return. That your throwing me out hurt enough to come crawling back."

"That would be about the gist."

"Thought that might be the case and, at the time, maybe it did. You, ruined my career, exiled me from one of the few places I ever actually felt at home… and maybe, just a little, part of me does still want to go back…" now however, his eyes moved, and Monty felt them settle on her as he continued, still apparently addressing the station head, "…but not enough to leave what I currently have. Were you not such an utter arse I should really be thanking you." Then the moment was gone, his gaze turning back to Charlie, words hardening. "Bluster away by all means, but now it's your turn to face the music. Perhaps you can learn to be thankful too."

The man seemed about to reply, but this time it was Katherine who cut over him, rising from her seat as she did. "Blacker here might think otherwise, but there _will_ be a next time, whether officially or no. That one I'll leave you ponder, Wilkes, but I would rather you do so silently."

The blow was hard and fast and, in its wake, the man slumped, unconscious.

"Sorry, but he was going to be a bother awake."

Catching her partner's eye, Monty returned his wry smile as he spoke again.

"Oh if you hadn't I probably would, if only so I didn't have to keep listening to him." Pausing then, he looked up, one hand shielding eyes from the rising sun as he scanned skies above. "Now let's just hope Algy caught enough message to come find us."


	16. Epilogue

**SIX DEGREES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

It had once been said that if a Liberty Ship survived a single crossing of the Atlantic, then she had paid for her construction. If that were the case, Captain Howell mused, the trip from Ranong to the Mediterranean had certainly earned _SS Tempest_ a few more turns by the dry dock. Normally standing on his bridge would have made him a happy man and, as a proud British subject, a charter from Her Majesty's Government would have made him an even happier one. Now though, watching the two figures walking across wharf concrete below, _away_ from his ship, he could only feel profound relief.

_He had gone to the South Pacific for a change of scenery, not have the catalyst for that change find its way back aboard._

Striding beside her partner, Monty glanced backward, finding the Captain looking down at his departing guests, before swinging her gaze ahead once more.

"I get the distinct impression he was not happy to see us."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

Comfortable silence fell again and, continuing a few more steps, she glanced up at him, mulling over her next words. Finally, she cocked an eyebrow. "Do you believe Algy will follow through on his promise?"

"What, on clearing my name? Finding a slot for us in England?" Another collection of paces, and she felt a hand settle on her shoulder, drawing her in. "If he and Katherine can make anything stick to Charlie I'm sure he'll try. However, I don't think that will be so easy a task as they would like to insist."

"They _did_ manage to retrieve everything from Hong Kong."

"True, but at the moment that is only what we collected which, given our shared history, everyone will be taking with more than a pinch of salt."

"Hmm."

'_Finding a slot for _us_.'_

It was a nice, if fanciful, thought, and at it the girl's face grew dour. Unfortunately, no matter how well intentioned, Algy's offer could only ever be for one of them, not both. At the end of the day, if it actually came, even if they really would be welcomed with open arms, only Jethro would be able to go. _Her_ lot was tied to Italy, whatever personal feelings on the subject she may harbour…

"If he did though, would you go?"

"What, back to the SIS?"

"Yes."

Now she felt the hand on her shoulder tighten as her partner came to a halt, staring out into space. Then he sighed. "You know as well as I it would be lying to say there was not some appeal, so maybe… maybe one day…" now however he turned to face her, bending over to place their single suitcase down, and plant a kiss on her forehead, before pulling her in tight, "…maybe one day, but not yet, not for a _long_ time yet." He drew back, looking her square in the eye. "Ideally a _very_ long time indeed."

Returning his gaze, she managed a tired smile. "Until death do us part, huh?"

"Something to that effect."

Leaning forward, he planted another kiss, this time to soft lips, its touch lingering on, until finally drawing back to return the same weary smile.

Then the moment was past and, giving her one final squeeze, he stood to retrieve their luggage.

"Come on, there are people waiting for us."

The remainder of their walk passed in silence and, rounding the end of a long warehouse, they were greeted by the sight of a dark E-Class estate, parked under soft morning shadow. Turning to the suited man beside it, Jethro held out a hand.

"New car, Victor?"

Shaking it, Hilshire nodded. "It is a long story."

Presenting her own paw, Monty cocked an eyebrow as it too was grasped. "Well, you can tell us all about it on the way up to Paris."

There was a brief pause, detective opposite wrestling with his next words.

"Not Paris, my orders are to bring you directly to Rome." Now the German's expression became dour. "Besides, you probably want to be in my company for as short a time as possible."

"All the more reason to go collect our car and make our own way through Italy."

"No. Rome. You can argue with Jean there."

Hearing her partner sigh, Monty waited for him to place their suitcase in the boot. It was a small item, cardboard shell worn and battered, probably befitting of their current vagrant status, but it was enough to contain the few meagre possessions Algy had managed to salvage from Hong Kong: Jethro's Sig, her PPK, the underpowered laptop, a few spare changes of clothes. Little as the prospect enthused her, perhaps it _was_ a good thing they were visiting Rome first: they were going to need time to rebuild.

Turning around the Mercedes' side, she slipped behind dark privacy glass into the rear bench, finding it unusually empty.

"Where's Triela?"

Twisting as her handler settled into the passenger seat, Hilshire looked back. "At the compound, I draw less attention without her."

"So you found who the Padania identified and who they did not?"

"Yes." His face became grim once more. "We were top of the list."

It was her partner, however, who replied. "How bad was it?"

"Bad." The other man sighed, firing his car's engine in to life. "Still, at least now Jean can plan accordingly, and we can start rebuilding."

"Just so long as we don't get trapped helping."

"You can debate that one with Lorenzo."

"So, Paris?"

Hauling the gear lever in to drive, Hilshire pulled smoothly from his warehouse hiding place, idling off down the road.

"No, Rome."

"_Fine._ Rome first."

**And the Adventure Continues.**


End file.
